


In Memoriam

by sophisticus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Temporary Amnesia, all of the angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-11-19 20:50:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11321484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophisticus/pseuds/sophisticus
Summary: Hawke wakes up in a strange city, with people who claim to be her friends, and no memory of it all. Strangest of all, there's a frankly intimidating looking elf, claiming to be a past lover of hers. Hawke has to learn to navigate her new social circles quickly, especially considering the rising tension between the mages and templars, all of whom look to the "Champion" as a mediating voice.





	1. Revelations

Soft warmth encompassed her entire body. Hawke shifted a little, unwilling to wake up yet. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so tired, all the way down to her bones, or the last time her bed had felt so comfortable. She shifted slightly but stopped at a sudden sharp pain in her shoulder; around the pain, the joint felt stiff, as if it were tightly wrapped in bandages. Finally, she opened her eyes.

Hawke blinked, then blinked again with a frown. Where on earth was she? Instead of the usual underside of their thatched roof, thick wooden crossbeams held up a stone and plaster ceiling. Sitting up revealed more of the same stone and plaster for walls, making up a room far more ornate than even Lothering’s chantry. The bed that was so absurdly comfortable was a massive four-poster bed, covered in thick, soft red sheets. Her hand absentmindedly touched where her shoulder had ached, and found it wrapped in soft white gauze. Had she been hurt somehow?

A soft noise made her start in surprise; off to the side she finally spotted a man dozing in a chair leaning against the wall. She eyed the feathered shoulders of his robes with suspicion, and the pale face lined with exhaustion under strands of blonde hair coming free of a loose ponytail. If she was injured, perhaps he was a doctor. Hawke’s eyebrows contracted as she tried to recall if she knew him; he felt somehow familiar, but she knew everybody in Lothering, and she’d definitely not seen this man before.

Taking care not to wake the man, she slid silently out of the bed and pulled on the soft boots set next to the bed. Until she figured out where she was, the owner probably wouldn’t mind her borrowing them.

One of the doors in the room looked like it led to a small bathroom, so the other must lead to the rest of the house. Hawke slowly pushed the heavy door open, marveling that it didn’t squeak even a little. The rest of the house proved to be as ornate as the bedroom she’d woken up in; a wide stone staircase led down to the lower level, which had doors leading off to a study and to the kitchen. From the latter came a couple of voices talking quietly. Hawke took a step in their direction, but hesitated. If she’d been hurt, it’d be best to find Mother, Bethany, and Carver and to find out what happened, and make sure they were alright too.

If she’d somehow ended up in the Circle, then this sure wasn’t what she was expecting it to be.

An overcoat hung by what looked like the main door and she slung it on before pushing open the front door. A wave of humidity smacked her in the face, and she squinted in the blinding sunlight. As soon as her vision adjusted, she was greeted with…well, it wasn’t the humble village of Lothering, that’s for sure. Dull gray flagstones covered the entire ground, and impeccably-dressed nobility strutted around as if they owned the place. One or two spotted her as she hovered in the shadowed doorway, and gave her polite nods. Around them all, buildings made from the same stone as the ground jutted up, creating huge mansions that overshadowed even the Lothering Chantry. Where in Andraste’s name _was_ she?

Hawke stood in the doorway for one more moment, then forced herself to step forward.

She received a few curious glances as she made her way through what was clearly the nicer part of whatever city this was.

“Excuse me,” Hawke said politely, getting the attention of a nearby noblewoman. “Can you tell me where I am?”

The woman gave a tittering laugh that failed to hide her incredulous glance. “A fine jest, Serah!” she simpered. “I had heard you had hit your head in a recent battle, it must’ve been worse than you thought!” And with that, she walked away.

Hawke stared after her in disbelief as the woman joined a friend and walked away together, glancing back with a whisper to the friend. “Hit my head?” she repeated. If she’d been in a fight, it would explain why her shoulder had been hurt. This didn’t look like a Circle, and these nobles didn’t look like mages, so it was unlikely she’d been caught and put in the Circle after all. “Where in the void am I?” she whispered.

Several minutes later, Hawke found herself in a marketplace of sorts. Merchants hawked their wares from various stalls, whether gleaming baubles or sharp blades or fine silks. “The finest silkweave in all of the Free Marches!” one merchant shouted. “You’ll not find a finer make in all of Kirkwall!”

In that moment, Hawke’s heart stuttered, then picked up again double time. _Kirkwall? I’m in_ Kirkwall? she thought furiously. Whose bright idea was it to take an _apostate_ to the _center of templar power_ in the whole south of Thedas!?

If Bethany was here somewhere-

Her heart jumped up and jammed itself in her throat. She turned and stumbled blindly away, down a wide stairway. It led far down below the city – Hightown, her mind supplied, though she didn’t know how she knew that – to a sprawling spread of dirty, squat buildings leading out to a bay full of dirty water with tiny flecks that must be boats.

A collision with something soft jarred her to attention, and she looked up to find she’d run into a woman going the opposite way, up the long stairway.

“Are you alright, dear?” the woman said with a soft voice. Upon closer inspection, she wore the plain and worn clothing of more common folk. Her age-lined face, creased with concern, bore none of the expensive cosmetics of nobility.

Hawke shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, and brushed past without a word and continued down. As she descended, she forced herself to calm down and think rationally.

If she was here, in the seat of templar power, and still walking free as an apostate, then it wasn’t too much of a stretch to assume Bethany was free of the Circle as well, if she were here. Not that Carver would ever let it happen, she mused to herself.

She huffed out a breath. If her family was here with her, it was likely they’d be in the bad part of town, as it were. Not like they could ever afford to live in the fancy manors upstairs, if her mother’s story about being so estranged from her parents was true.

The dirty, cramped streets twisted and turned between the filthy buildings, and Hawke was quickly lost. She swore as she tried retracing her steps; she could handle herself in a forest just fine, never getting lost once, but apparently big cities were her downfall. She made another turn, unaware of an armored figure behind her who spotted her, paused, and began following.

Hawke turned again, came to a dead end, and backtracked once more. _Maybe I should’ve waited at the manor where I woke up,_ she sighed to herself. Or she should’ve woken and talked to the man sleeping in the chair in that bedroom, perhaps he’d know where her family is, or how in the world she’d gotten here. Despite her best efforts, her breathing quickened, anxiety squeezing a fist around her heart once more.

She skidded to a halt as she encountered yet another dead end. She swore loudly, but as she turned to backtrack once more, she found her path blocked by an armored figure. He raised his hand, and the dying sunlight glinted on what looked like razor sharp claws.

Panic gripped her tight in its grasp, squeezing the breath from her lungs. She had no weapons, not even a dagger, and to protect herself with magic was a death sentence. She raised her hands defensively anyway, prepared to unleash her magic if she was forced to.

The figure stepped out of the shadows, and the streetlamp finally illuminated his face. Bone white hair, pointed ears, and silvery tattoos that started on the man’s chin and flowed down the front of his throat, and crisscrossed over his bare biceps. What she’d taken for claws appeared to be just gauntlets with clawed tips, one of which had a red strip of cloth wrapped around the wrist.

“Hawke?” the elf said tentatively. “What are you doing down here? You should be in bed, resting.”

“Who are you?” Hawke demanded in a low voice. Despite having never seen the man before, she felt a peculiar fluttering feeling in her chest at the sight of him.

A strange look flickered across the man’s face, worry and…fear? “What do you remember about yesterday?” he said instead.

“What’s that have to do with anything?” she retorted.

“Just…humor me,” he sighed.

Hawke huffed, but did as he asked. Her brows furrowed. “I…it’s vague,” she said slowly. “I think I was talking to my brother? Or maybe my sister?”

Something close to dismay crept into the elf’s eyes, but it was gone before she could be sure. “Where were you last?”

“Home, I think.”

“Which is where, specifically?”

Hawke huffed a breath of irritation. “Lothering. Perhaps you can tell me how I ended up here? If this is really Kirkwall?”

The elf’s eyes bored into hers, his gaze intense. “Hawke, what year is it?”

Hawke gave a derisive snort. “What’s with the interrogation? Tell me who you are, or leave me be.”

“Humor me,” he repeated.

“Andraste’s tits! It’s 9:30 Dragon, isn’t it?” she hissed.

The elf’s calm façade dropped, and real devastation filled his expression. “You don’t remember any of it?” he exclaimed, aghast.

“Remember _what?”_ Hawke shouted.

The elf’s shoulder’s slumped, the spikes of his armor seeming to droop. “Anders was right,” he murmured. He took a step towards her, but stopped when she raised her hands in warning. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he reassured her. “I’m not a templar.”

 _Sounds like something a templar would say,_ a snarky voice in the back of her head sneered. Almost as if he knew what she was thinking, he grimaced.

“I know someone who can explain to you about your family,” he tried. Hawke squinted, but didn’t lower her guard.

“You could be lying,” she barked. “What do you know of my family?”

“You don’t get along with Carver,” he said bluntly. “You care for your brother deeply, and regret the rift that had grown between you two. You fight to repair your relationship with him but fear you’ll be forever estranged, or that one of you will die before you can make things right.”

The words hit her with all the gentleness of a sledgehammer to the ribs. “How do you know-” she rasped.

“Your relationship with your mother is even worse, though you wouldn’t be able to tell by looking,” he continued, staring her down. He took another step closer, though Hawke remained frozen. “You love her, of course, but resent that she placed the burden of protecting the family on your shoulders after your father died. She’s blamed you for a great many things that you couldn’t have prevented, and the guilt still eats you alive.”

Hawke visibly flinched at that, staggering back a step. Her back bumped against the stone of the building behind her; still, the elf advanced.

“You never felt you could live up to Bethany’s reputation,” he said, softer now. His words came with no judgement, no condemnation, only compassion and a deep sadness that she couldn’t imagine from where it came. “Your sister was always better than you, you felt. Kinder, gentler, better with people. No acerbic tongue or biting wit, and everyone loved her. A more faithful Andrastian, more skilled with healing magic than you ever managed to be-”

Hawke’s stomach clenched painfully. He _knew_ , he KNEW she was an apostate. That’s why he’d claimed not to be a templar. _Stupid_ , she chastised herself. _You never pay attention._

Not that the templars made a habit of recruiting non-humans, she realized, as he stood silent now, watching her process this information.

The elf reached out a hand once more; not to grab her, but an offering. As if he was soothing a scared animal. “You were in a fight with a maleficar,” he explained in a soft voice. “You got hit in the head with a blood magic spell, and Anders said it could possibly affect your memories, or who knows what else. It looks like he was right.”

“How much? How much have I lost?” Hawke found her voice at last. Again, the elf’s eyes saddened.

“It looks like at least six years,” he said. Again, that sledgehammer to the ribs feeling. Though if six years had passed, it was entirely possible for her to have made it to Kirkwall all the way from Lothering in that time, though there had to have been a damned good reason why they’d take two apostates to the most templar-concentrated city in Thedas.

“Where are Bethany and Carver?” Hawke demanded. “And mother? What all have I forgotten?”

The elf gestured behind him. “I know someone who can explain much better than I,” he explained. “If you’ll walk with me, I can take you to him. He’s no templar either,” he added dryly, at Hawke’s squint.

“Alright,” she said hesitantly. She shook herself mentally and stepped forward, ignoring his outstretched hand which he withdrew without comment. “Take me to him.”

The two fell into step together in the rapidly fading light, a respectable distance between them. Streetlamps were popping to life around them, not doing much to hold the damp dark at bay.

“You never told me your name,” Hawke said after a long moment.

The elf gave a faint smile. “It’s Fenris.”


	2. Moral Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Micah

Fenris led her to a building with windows that looked, impossibly, even dirtier than the others they’d passed on their way here. The thick, uneven glass was pocked and cracked in places, and faint peeling painted letters spelled out The Hanged Man. Above the doorway hung a tall wooden sign, cut and painted to resemble a man with a sack over his head and his hands tied behind his back, hung upside down by one ankle. Fenris pushed the door open, and Hawke followed him inside.

The pub was bustling at this time of night, with several patrons already drunk at their tables, catcalling the lone waitress who looked like she’d cut the fingers off any straying hands. As she watched, the woman actually jabbed at a groping hand with a short knife.

The bartender spotted Hawke and waved cheerfully. A couple of the patrons seemed to recognize them as well, shouting greetings or insults accordingly. Fenris touched her elbow lightly, just enough to get her attention, and nodded at a stairwell at the back.

They ascended the stairs and made their way along the dim hallway. The walls seemed thin, and it was easy to hear at least a handful of couples making their own memories loudly behind locked doors. Hawke grimaced, and pressed forward.

At the very end of the hall was a single door, which Fenris pushed open. It opened to reveal a dim but tidy study, warm and inviting, complete with a long table lined with nearly a dozen chairs, a handful of bookcases stuffed with thick tomes, all over a worn but expensive looking rug. Beyond that was an open doorway with a plush bed and dresser. Out of this side room came a dwarf, but he had to be the strangest dwarf Hawke had ever seen. She’d barely taken in the uncharacteristic shaved face, shirt unbuttoned to nearly his navel, or the carpet of coppery hair covering his chest, before he spotted her and started talking.

“Hawke! Good to see you’re up and about,” the dwarf exclaimed. “Blondie said you got hit pretty hard with some nasty blood magic. You sure you’re alright to be out of bed already?”

“Actually it does seem there was some side effects, Varric” Fenris explained in a low voice. The dwarf, Varric, frowned.

“That doesn’t sound good,” he muttered. “What kind of effects?”

“Memory loss, apparently,” Hawke said blithely. “I assume you know me at least as well as Fenris here does?”

Despite her light tone, Varric’s face dropped. “How much have you lost?”

“The last thing I remember before waking up earlier, I was in Lothering,” Hawke explained. She saw the glance Varric shot at Fenris, and all that the horrified look said. It also confirmed what the elf had said, unless they were both exceptional liars. “Fenris said you could tell me where my family is?”

The dwarf grimaced. “Shit, elf, you put that on me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hawke said sharply. The two men shared a glance again.

“Go get Blondie while I explain,” Varric said after a second. Fenris nodded, stood, and a moment later was gone.

The dwarf sat heavily, rubbing his stubbled chin. “I can already tell you you’re not going to like this,” he said after a long moment. Hawke sat across from him, arms folded, eyes intense. He sighed, and began speaking.

Twenty minutes later, Hawke’s head was in her hands as she struggled to keep her breathing even. Varric was a skilled storyteller, that was clear, but he had neither sugarcoated nor overly exaggerated just how Bethany had died as they fled the Blight, at the hands of an ogre which Hawke had then killed with terrifying fury.

And then, at her question about Carver, he’d explained about their Deep Roads venture, delving deep underground in search of riches and treasure. And they had found it, oh yes, but not without great price. Hawke and Varric had both lost a brother that day, but Carver at least had been saved by the Gray Wardens, and was alive and well with them. Her shoulders sagged with relief at this, but still weighted heavy with grief.

The room was still silent when Fenris returned, with the blonde man in tow who’d been dozing in the room where Hawke had awoken – her room, she’d found out. In her mansion. Her family’s mansion.

Behind the two men trailed a woman with rich brown skin and dark smoky eyes. Beneath the glittering golden jewelry and the skimpy, lowcut shirt, Hawke felt like that face was much better suited for a smirk than the heavy expression it wore now.

“Is it true?” the woman blurted out. Her voice was lightly accented, but Hawke couldn’t place it. “You can’t remember any of us?”

“Looks that way,” Varric answered when Hawke remained silent. The blonde man who’d been asleep earlier came over, and after a quick explanation that he was a healer, began a quick examination.

“You haven’t told me where my mother is,” Hawke reminded him dully. “Or is this something I won’t like, as well?”

Fenris and the two newcomers, now in the process of taking seats around the table, winced visibly. Varric cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“She’s dead too, isn’t she?”

The dwarf’s shoulders slumped. “Yes.”

“How.”

“It…isn’t pleasant,” Varric started to say.

“I want to know.”

“A blood mage used her for a crazy ritual,” the blonde man piped up. Anders, she guessed. “He was trying to ‘rebuild’ a lost lover. Your mother happened to look like her.”

Hawke sat silently, not meeting anyone’s eyes, for a long moment. Fenris watched her closely from across the table, noting the anguished curve of her shoulders and the fists he knew would be balled up on her lap, nails digging into her palms as a desperate means to keep herself grounded amidst her grief.

Fenris hadn’t been there when she’d lost Bethany or Carver, but he _had_ been present when her mother had died. He’d witnessed the horrors that maleficar had inflicted upon Leandra, and the rage which fueled Hawke to beat the blood mage into the dust. He’d also seen the stark agony in her eyes as neither Hawke nor Anders had the skill to save Leandra’s life; back then, kneeling in the filth of the dark sewers, her mother’s ruined body still in her lap, Hawke had wailed her loss and fury and inconsolable guilt at her inability to save her.

Now, sitting across from him at the table where they usually played Wicked Grace and Diamondback, she simply seemed to wilt.

There was a long, somber silence before Isabela spoke. “When’s the last time you had something to eat?”

Hawke looked up slowly, and Fenris’s heart ached at the lost look in her eyes. “I don’t remember,” she murmured.

Isabela nodded, as if that confirmed things, and stood. “Come on, you need to eat,” she said. “You were unconscious for nearly a full day, you must be hungry even if you don’t realize it yet. And I know where to get you some better food than the mystery meat gruel they serve here,” she chuckled.

Hawke nodded and stood, following the Rivaini woman out the door and down the hall. Fenris made to follow, but a hand on his elbow stopped him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, elf,” Varric warned quietly. Fenris jerked his elbow free with a snort.

“What are you talking about?”

“You saw just how hard she’s taking all of this. You really want to add onto that now? ‘Hi, by the way we slept together but I broke it off with you immediately afterwards and have made no move to go back to you despite you holding out for me over the three years it’s been since’.”

Fenris flinched at the backhanded accusation within the dwarf’s words. “That’s not…”

Varric’s face softened. “I know. But from her perspective, she’s just lost her entire family in one day, she’s in a city she doesn’t know, and all of a sudden some very strange and frankly intimidating looking people,” he gestured between their selves, with an especially meaningful glance at the elf’s spiked armor, “are claiming to have this long history with her. You have to give her time to sort it all out, to decide if she wants to be a part of all this.”

“I know that,” Fenris retorted.

“Wow, imagine if she decided she didn’t want you to be part of her life,” Anders drawled from where he still sat at the table, one leg propped over the other. “Not that I’d blame her. You actually had the luck to be with her, and you let go. Stupid.”

“Shut your mouth, mage,” the elf shot back. “It’s none of your damn business.” Anders simply snorted in response.

“Look, I’m not telling you to hide it from her forever, but…give her some time. Let her ease back into things, see if some treatment will help bring back any of her memory. Take it easy, for her sake,” Varric offered. Fenris huffed, but his shoulders slumped. The dwarf slapped him on the shoulder, which he could barely reach. “Good man. Give her a couple of days, and she should be fine. She’s pretty damn resilient.”

 

Hawke followed the woman, Isabela, up the huge stairway up out of the slums towards the nobility’s homes. Isabela chattered mindlessly as they went, giving her a slightly more expansive summary of Hawke’s antics since arriving in Kirkwall. The Deep Roads expedition, buying back the family estate, dealing with corrupt chantry sisters, trying to ease tensions with the qunari, stopping elven fanatics from poisoning half the city, fighting the arishok in a duel to the death and winning, barely.

Varric had covered the admittedly grim parts of the years since the Blight had come to Lothering, and now Isabela told her of some of their more lighthearted antics.

“And then he said, ‘Are you a mage? Because you just magicked my breath away!’” Isabela snorted. “I’ve seen worse come-ons, honestly, but not very many.”

Hawke let out a short huff of amusement, but otherwise was silent. Isabela’s smile faded away, and the rogue laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. Hawke jumped a little, and Isabela pulled back.

“Hey, are you alright?” the pirate asked softly.

Hawke sniffled a bit and rubbed her eyes. “No,” she admitted. “This is a whole complete shitload of- of shit,” she said, her voice cracking. Isabela’s hand found her arm again, but this time she didn’t pull away. The rogue guided her to the nearest bench, where they sat. All around them crickets chirped softly, and a soft breeze wafted past them, warm even as the chantry bell chimed eleven at night.

“I understand,” Isabela sighed.

“Have you ever lost six years of your memory, found out that, whoops, everybody in your family is dead, and oh yeah, all of a sudden you’re an apostate in the middle of the biggest center of templar power _in the whole of Thedas?_ ” The admission of apostacy slipped out before Hawke could stop herself, but judging by Isabela’s lack of reaction at the word, she guessed that she already knew.

 Isabela grimaced. “I mean, you do still have Carver and Gamlen,” she started to say.

Hawke’s forehead creased. “Gamlen? Mother’s brother?” Isabela opened her mouth to explain, but Hawke held up her hand. “Let me guess: I forgot.”

The pirate huffed a breath. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “You’re right, I don’t know what it’s like to lose six years of your memory. But I know what it’s like to suddenly have lost so much, and to feel so alone and powerless. And I want you to know, you’re neither of these things.”

“Why, because I’m the ‘Champion of Kirkwall’?” Hawke’s fingers added quotations around the title, and her voice dripped with sarcasm.

“You don’t have to hide behind sarcasm just because you’re afraid,” Isabela said softly. Hawke flinched at the words; it appeared this woman knew her very well, just as the elf, Fenris, did. “You’ve lost much, nobody denies that. But you’re nowhere near alone, nor are you powerless. Your title gives you influence, despite being an apostate. But it’s your _friends_ and your compassion for others which give you true strength. Andraste’s ass, I’ve sure seen it enough. You fought the Arishok until you were a breath away from dying, just to save me. You’ve certainly saved the rest of our lives too often to count, over the years.”

Isabela took Hawke’s hand in hers; the pirate’s palms were calloused from the grip of her daggers.

“Nobody’s telling you that this isn’t a scary thing that’s happened to you, or that you don’t have every right to lash out or panic,” she added. “We’re just telling you that you don’t have to go through it alone. Alright?”

Hawke’s shoulders slumped. “Alright.”

“Do you want to go home?”

And though both women knew that Hawke wasn’t thinking about the mansion in Hightown at the word “home”, she nodded anyway.


	3. Playing Catch-Up

Several days had now passed, and Hawke was slowly coming to terms with the new arrangement. Varric had taken the liberty of showing her around the city and helping re-familiarize her with the winding streets and all the hidey-holes where most of the city’s criminals tended to hide – as well as leap out in a poorly-conceived attempt to ambush. Hawke had also been reintroduced to Merrill, who had joined the two of them in a small game of Wicked Grace.

“Aw man, I’ve never been good at this game,” Hawke groused. Varric chuckled as she peered at her cards.

“You know, you actually had gotten pretty good at it,” he remarked as he reorganized his own hand. He carefully pulled one card out and laid it face-down in front of him. “Until you get your memory back, this might be my only chance to win some of my coin back from you.”

“Until I get it back? So you think it’ll come back at some point?” Hawke said, surprised.

“Oh we certainly hope so!” Merrill interjected. The elf peered at her cards, then laid one face down on the table as well. She had been playing nearly as long as she’d known Hawke and everyone else, she’d explained, but had never been very good. Hawke had the suspicion that the Dalish woman was hardly better at the game than she herself was. “I mean, I haven’t talked to anybody but you two about it, but I assume we all want you back to your ordinary self. Not that you’re ordinary,” she added with a grimace. “You’re rather extraordinary, I just mean- oh, you probably know what I mean.”

“It’s fine, Merrill,” Hawke assured her. The elf seemed to be perpetually anxious, about anything and everything. She also had a tendency to babble, Hawke was discovering. Nonetheless, she waved away the elf’s self-depreciating expression. “I appreciate it, really. I just mean, do you really think that I _can_ recover to that point? I’d love to remember what all happened for real, rather than just know what I’m told via stories, as well-told as they may be,” she added with a smile towards Varric.

“Anders has said that the mind can be a tricky thing,” the dwarf said with a sigh. “And when blood magic gets in the mix, it gets even more complicated. He’s asked that he be able to see you once a day, to see if he can do anything to speed up the healing.”

“Oooh, I’m not too sure Fenris will be too happy about that,” Merrill tittered, giving the dwarf a knowing look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hawke squinted.

Varric grimaced. “The elf and Blondie don’t really get along,” he explained. He drew a card from the deck and examined it with a disgruntled glance. “Personally, I think they have more in common than they would ever care to admit, not that I would ever be the one to bring that to their attention, but they started off on the wrong foot and only got worse from there. But since it’s you that Blondie would be tending to, Fenris will be smart enough to put his antagonism to the side for your sake.”

“That doesn’t explain why Fenris cares if Anders takes care of my injuries,” Hawke said. “If it’s just mistrust of apostates, that’s one thing, but that doesn’t explain where I come in. Unless he’s just distrustful of me as well,” she added as an afterthought. “Two apostates, up to possible trouble?”

“Actually, I’d say Fenris trusts you above anybody else he knows,” Merrill piped up. Hawke turned to stare at the woman, who gave a warm but slightly spacey smile. “You don’t always agree with him on things, but you’ve backed him up whenever he actually asked for help, and I think he’s actually opened up to you.”

“Really?” Hawke said, mystified. Aside from his one emotional burst the night he’d found her wandering Lowtown, the elf had stayed sullen and kept his own council, replying to others only when necessary. And to Anders, his attitude had been as prickly as the armor which he always wore.

And yet, anytime she’d glanced at him, the elf always seemed to be gazing at her. He never flinched away or avoided her gaze, yet never sought her out specifically. Hawke had no idea how to categorize the man in her head, besides “brooding”.

“To be honest, you and the elf’s history is something that he should be the one to tell you,” Varric admitted. “Your turn to draw a card. It’s partially because I don’t really know most of it, so what I could tell you would mostly be speculation. The other part is…” His eyes dropped, and his voice turned subdued. “What I _do_ know about it, I know he wouldn’t want you to be told like it’s cheap gossip.”

Even Merrill looked grim at the words, and Hawke returned her gaze to the cards in her hand as the sudden somber silence stretched out. She huffed out a breath, and tossed her cards down. “Eh, I fold.”

 

Two hours later, Hawke and Varric found their selves on the steps leading up to the Viscount’s Keep. “Andraste’s ass, what a gaudy building,” Hawke drawled.

Varric snorted. “That’s what you said the first time you saw it.”

The two approached the doorway, where a pair of guards nodded in greeting and pushed the heavy double door open for them. “You didn’t have to escort me up here, you know,” Hawke said in a lowered voice. “I may not remember the way, but I could’ve figured it out.”

“I know. It just so happens that I had some business with the guard captain as well, so it just happens to work out,” Varric replied. They made their way past milling nobles and down a short flight of stairs. The dwarf pushed open a door to reveal a small but well-furnished office.

The woman sitting at the desk looked up at the action, and gave a wan smile. “Hawke!” she exclaimed. The redhead stood, and Hawke’s impressed gaze took in the towering height and the muscular figure that even a full set of armor couldn’t hide. “I’m glad to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Physically, I’m just about normal,” Hawke replied. “Some new scars, and the memory still isn’t there, but otherwise fine.”

Aveline nodded. “Varric sent a letter to tell me what happened,” she explained. “I’m sorry to hear your memory was affected, but I’m glad that’s the worst thing.”

“Agreed,” Varric added.

“Aveline, I actually had something I wanted to ask you,” Hawke began hesitantly.

“Anything.”

“Isabela and Varric gave me the basics about everything that’s happened, but they said you were actually there when…when Bethany died.” Hawke’s voice wavered, but she held the warrior’s gaze steady.

Aveline sighed and tucked a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. “I’ll tell you what happened, but I assume you know it wasn’t pleasant,” she said plainly.

“I understand.”

Varric stepped forward and dropped an envelope on the desk quickly. “I’ll leave you two to it,” he said with an apologetic grimace. “I hate to drop and dash, but I have to get back to business.”

“I’ll be alright,” Hawke reassured him.

“I’ll make sure she gets home safely,” Aveline added. Varric nodded, and then was gone.

Hawke’s stare bored into the back of Aveline’s head as the warrior shut the door to afford them some privacy.

“Alright, you want to know about Bethany,” she said seriously. “The blight had struck, and the battle of Ostagar to stem the tide was a complete failure. The horde rushed north and destroyed Lothering just after you and your family fled. My husband, Wesley, had found me and we fled the blight together. You and I met then, and you saved our lives.”

At the mention of Wesley, Hawke could almost see a templar insignia floating in her mental vision. Shaking away the image, she refocused.

“Wesley wanted to take you both in for apostacy, but you stared him down like a mongoose with a snake. It was quite impressive,” Aveline added with a faint smile. “We agreed on a truce until we were safe. We kept going, anything to put distance between us and the darkspawn. Then, an ogre caught us by surprise. Our group was split down the middle; you, Wesley, and I on one side; on the other, your mother, Carver, and Bethany. The ogre charged at your mother, but Bethany got there first. She gave her life protecting your mother.”

Hawke was quiet for a second, then let out a long sigh. “Of course she did,” she muttered. Aveline winced sympathetically.

“Are you alright?”

“I…it’s been a rough few days,” Hawke admitted. “This isn’t a situation I could ever prepare for. ‘Hey, you have a whole other life you didn’t know about! Also, you’re now thirty.’”

Aveline chuckled. “Actually, your birthday was a couple months ago. You’re thirty one.”

Hawke threw her hands up in the air. “Thirty one!”

“I just want you to make sure you know you have support, especially since things are getting nasty,” the guard captain said, suddenly somber again.

Hawke’s smile faded. “You mean with the mages and templars, right?”

“Exactly so.”

“How exactly do I fit into all of it? Isabela and Merrill have mentioned it in passing, but they didn’t go into much detail.”

Aveline gave a wry chuckle. “You’ve managed to land yourself in the exact middle of all this bullshit, especially after that stunt you pulled with the Arishok.” She brushed a stack of papers to the side, stacking them into a neat pile.

“That’s another thing. How _did_ I defeat a qunari commander one on one, without revealing, you know…” Hawke trailed off. The guard captain gave her a knowing look.

“You didn’t. You fought tooth and nail for the city, with _everything_ in your arsenal.” Aveline smiled faintly. “Everybody in the Keep saw, including Knight-Commander Meredith.”

Hawke made a choking noise. “The _Knight Commander_ knows I’m an apostate? How the hell am I not stuck in the Circle?”

Aveline’s face fell. “After the duel, you were…severely injured. The Arishok caught you on his sword, and you nearly bled out before you could finish him,” she said carefully. Hawke absentmindedly laid her hand on her stomach, where the other day she’d indeed found a thick scar; just to the right of her bellybutton, six or seven inches long and still red and puckered. “You were placed in the Circle for about a week, so healers could save your life. But when she tried to keep you there…” Aveline shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The entire nobility petitioned to have you released, in gratitude of what you’d done. If only to retain her position as Knight Commander, Meredith let you go. ‘This is an _opportunity’_ , she said.”

Hawke sat heavily in the spare chair set against the wall. “Well. Shit,” she said dazedly.

Aveline chuckled, clapping an armored hand down on the apostate’s shoulder. “I assume she has people keep an eye on you, of course, but as long as you put your magic to use killing slavers and keeping general peace, she’s more or less content to allow Kirkwall’s Champion near free reign. And don’t delve into blood magic, of course,” she added.

Hawke snorted. “Yeah, no pressure.”


	4. A First Confrontation

A day or so later found Hawke hesitating outside the door to Fenris’ mansion. A week had passed since she’d woken in a strange room and found herself in a strange city full of strange people.

Her new friends had filled her in about the basics of her adventures in and around the city, but whenever Fenris had come up in conversation, everybody involved got this pained look on their face, like there was something uncomfortable they wanted to say but didn’t feel like they should. And besides Varric’s brief explanation that she and Fenris apparently had this complicated history, nobody seemed willing to actually _explain._

Hawke was tired of it. It was time for answers.

Or at least, that’s what she assured herself as her raised hand wavered, knuckles just brushing the dark wood of the door. Surprisingly, the door cracked open under her light touch. It was just left open? She took a steadying breath, then pushed the door open fully with a creak.

The mansion’s foyer opened up into a large main room, which she could imagine once looked quite regal. Now, under a thick layer of dust and some demolished furniture pushed into a corner, even the remains of the chipped tiles and peeling paint didn’t impress.

The murmur of voices caught her attention, and she followed them up the main staircase to the second floor. An open door beckoned, behind which she found a large bedroom with a warm fire crackling in the hearth. Seated near a desk was Aveline, still in her guard captain armor, frowning. Fenris paced back and forth in front of her, looking more anxious than she’d seen yet.

“You’re sure it’s her?” he demanded.

“An elf matching your description, on the ship you named. And alone, as far as I could tell,” the guard captain replied.

Fenris slammed his hands down on the desk. “I need to know if it’s a trap!”

Aveline bristled. “I did as you asked, Fenris,” she said frostily, standing. “Now it’s up to you.” She brushed past the man, who remained hunched over the chair. Aveline strode out the door, pausing only as she passed Hawke. “ _You_ talk to him,” she said, exasperated. “I’ve had my fill for today.”

Hawke turned to watch Aveline’s disappearing figure; behind her, Fenris let out a stream of words in a language she didn’t recognize, but figured were swears based on the venom in his voice.

“Is everything alright?” she said cautiously. Fenris gave a frustrated sigh.

“It’s my sister,” he huffed. “I…I was told that I might have a sister,” he explained, noticing Hawke’s raised brows. His voice wobbled slightly, and he resumed his pacing.  “I followed up on the information. All of it was true. I had to keep it quiet, but I eventually contacted Varania and sent her enough coin to come meet me. And now she’s coming _here_ , in just a couple of weeks.”

Hawke sat on a bench near the fire and considered carefully. “I’d normally say this sounds like a good thing, but judging from the tone of your voice…it’s not?” she guessed. Fenris grunted, but sat beside her. Up close, she took in his haggard appearance. Dark half-moons shaded under his eyes, and his hair looked as if he’d been running his hands through it a lot recently.

“It’s…complicated,” he said heavily. For the next several minutes, he gave her a brief rundown of his history, for context: slavery to a Tevinter magister, the lyrium brandings that marked him as a target yet erased his memory prior to their application, as well as the hateful apprentice who made his life even more of a living hell. He explained how Hadriana had come to Kirkwall and they’d fought; Fenris had finally crushed her heart, but only after telling him about his sister’s existence as a desperate bid for her life.

Looking at him, Hawke felt her heart ache for the suffering he’d clearly gone through. “If you really do have a sister, and she’s agreed to come meet you…maybe it’s just my unsolicited opinion, but I think you ought to take the chance.”

Fenris stood again and continued pacing. At this rate, it looked like he’d wear a groove in the carpet, but she held her tongue on the comment. “But Danarius _must_ know about this,” he seethed. “The more it seems he doesn’t know, the more certain I become that he does!”

“Fenris.”

He stopped pacing finally and turned to face her. She met his stare steadily, waiting until his agitated breathing slowed.

“I’m not saying to rush in blindly,” she said quietly. “If you want backup, or moral support, then you’ll have it.”

“You’d go with me?” Fenris stared at her as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

Hawke blinked. “Of course. You’re my friend, why wouldn’t I?”

The elf’s shoulders sagged in relief, even as his mouth quirked in a smile.

“What?”

“I didn’t expect anything less from you, yet it’s still a relief to hear,” he admitted. He sat again.

Hawke gave her own smile at that. “I must’ve been a good friend to earn your trust like this. Something tells me you don’t trust easily.”

Fenris huffed a short laugh. “Ah. Well, yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Hawke’s smile slipped away. “I wish I could remember it all.”

A reassuring weight settled on her knee, and she looked down to find Fenris’s hand upon her knee. He’d taken off his usual clawed gauntlets, and even knowing how the lyrium tattoos caused him so much pain through his life, Hawke still admired the even, perfectly parallel lines, at such a contrast to his rich brown skin.

“You _will_ get your memory back,” he said firmly. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“Anders has been doing his best to undo whatever the blood magic did to me,” Hawke said, trying to ignore the color she knew was blooming high on her cheeks at the physical contact, the intensity of the elf’s gaze. As if he realized, he hastily withdrew his hand. “An hour every day, everything he can think of. Varric’s even helped by having contacts in the Circle advise, but he can’t do much without alerting Meredith that I’m…indisposed.” She chuckled wryly. “So far, we’ve had no luck.”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Fenris repeated. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear that was a blush blooming on his cheeks as well. “And if, for some reason, it takes longer than we expect for your memories to return…then I suppose you’ll make some more memories.”

Hawke eyed the elf. “Memories? Like with you?”

Now that was _definitely_ a blush on his face. Interesting.

“I’m happy to accompany you on whatever adventure you could think up, I’m sure,” he replied carefully. Very interesting.

“Well, it’s only been a week,” Hawke sighed. She’d let this drop, for now. “Maybe Anders will come up with something, or figure something out.”

“That’s all we can hope for.”

There was a comfortable silence. Then, “Fenris?”

“Hmm?”

“Do I seem different to you? From before I got hurt, I mean,” Hawke asked.

Fenris turned to face her fully, considering carefully. “You seem…softer,” he said eventually.

Hawke scoffed. “Soft?”

He waved a hand. “I mean, you seem more open and trusting now,” he explained. “You trusted me when we first met, which I hadn’t expected, but then again you constantly defy expectations. But now you seem even more…well, soft, than you did even when I first met you.”

Hawke chuckled and bumped her shoulder against him playfully. A thought seemed to strike her. “Hey, I know I go by my last name. Did I tell any of you my first name?”

Fenris laughed. Actually _laughed._ “Besides Carver and Gamlen, I think you’ve told Varric and I. Possibly Anders and Merrill, but I’m not sure.”

Hawke hummed thoughtfully. “Well, that’s alright then.”


	5. Push Comes to Shove

In the two weeks that passed, with Varania’s arrival drawing ever closer, Hawke succeeded at two things: one, she managed to make Meredith aware that she was in no condition to carry out more ‘requests’ from the templar. Hawke had finally cracked and asked Orsino if there was anything he could to help her memories return, and he’d had to bring the matter to Meredith’s attention for permission. The Knight-Commander had given permission, along with unusually cordial well-wishes. So far, the Grand Enchanter had been unsuccessful.

Second, Hawke recovered a memory.

She didn’t realize it at first as she jerked awake, linen sheets tangled around her. Her heart still pounded from the nightmare, and she barely managed to bolt to the small bathroom off her room before she heaved up the contents of her dinner into the toilet.

Hawke knelt on the cold tile, panting. Her nightmare flashed again in her mind: trapped underground, little chance of escape; Carver collapsing, his skin ashen, veins blackening with the taint as she watched-

She heaved again, but was only met with dry heaves. When they abated, she spat into the water and carefully eased to the side. Against the tub, back to the wall, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Her skin still felt clammy.

Going off what she’d been told by Varric, that had to be when he caught the taint in the Deep Roads and was given to the Wardens.

Her heart ached as she thought about her brother, about Bethany. Bethany, who was _dead._ Carver, who _could_ be dead. Carver, the Gray Warden. Had they managed to patch things up at all before he left?

Distantly, Hawke heard her bedroom door open, faint footsteps, then the door shut again. Hawke stood, wiping her mouth on a bath towel, and returned to her room.

The bedroom was still dark; it had to be the middle of the night. Hawke flicked her hand and a lick of fire burst into life in her palm. The steady flame illuminated most of the room, and her eyes fell upon a small tray set on her bedside table – a tray with a plate of crackers and a glass of water, no doubt left by the soft-spoken Orana.

Just how often did she wake up from nightmares, only to hurl up the contents of her stomach, Hawke wondered as she nibbled on a cracker. She slid back into the wonderfully cool sheets and tried to put the dark thoughts out of her mind long enough to return to sleep.

The next morning found Hawke bleary-eyed and tired, but otherwise normal. She’d been checking in with Fenris a couple times every day for the past few days, to see if his sister had arrived. So far, though, nothing.

She’d also not managed to ask him about their history. After the discovery that his sister was coming to Kirkwall, and their chat afterwards, she’d decided that then wasn’t appropriate to ask. However, over the intervening days, Fenris had always seemed so tense that it didn’t feel appropriate then, either. He threw himself into whatever it was he did when he didn’t accompany Hawke – likely hunting slavers on the coast, Varric told her – and it left him exhausted most days.

Hawke sat in the kitchen at a cramped table in the corner, eating a plate of eggs and fresh fruit. Orana had offered repeatedly to bring her breakfast in bed, especially considering that Hawke had been injured, but Hawke hastily declined.

“A lost memory doesn’t mean I need special treatment,” Hawke replied around a mouthful of strawberry. “I can appreciate your good cooking anywhere.”

Orana’s pale face flooded with a blush, and she stammered her thanks as a knock sounded at the front door. Bodahn bustled past them and disappeared around the corner; the front door opened and the two women could hear two voices chatting at the door. Hawke quickly stuffed a couple more bites of egg into her mouth as she stood to greet whoever her guest was.

Fenris waited in the main room for her. He’d donned his full armor, gauntlets and everything, and something about his expression made Hawke’s heartbeat accelerate.

“She’s here,” is the only thing he said.

“Let me get dressed.”

Five minutes later had Hawke dressed in what she had been told was her “champion armor”, which was really more of a collection of fur, leather, and spikes than anything else. She examined herself briefly in the mirror, and admitted to herself that even with the asymmetrical arm guards, she looked totally badass.

She grabbed the staff which leaned against the corner of the room – equally as badass as the armor, with its wickedly sharp, foot and a half long blade at the end – and headed back downstairs.

Fenris was quiet on the way to Lowtown, aside from a short explanation that they’d agreed to meet in the Hanged Man. When they finally stopped outside the dingy pub door, he hesitated.

Hawke laid her hand lightly on his shoulder, avoiding the feather-shaped metal spikes on his shoulder guards. “Are you alright?” she said softly. In the distance, then chantry bell struck nine in the morning.

“I…don’t know,” he admitted. He stared at the door. “My _sister_ is in there. A real, flesh and blood person. I just...”

“I understand. We’ll go in when you’re ready,” she affirmed. Fenris nodded gratefully, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

The bar was quiet, as was to be expected when it was so early in the morning. A single patron drank in the corner, and Corff dozed in a chair behind the bar. Fenris’ eyes scanned the bar warily, but whatever this Varania looked like, he didn’t seem to see her. His shoulders hunched, tensing, until:

“So it really is you.”

Fenris and Hawke turned to see a young elven woman descending the stairs. She had the same dusky skin as Fenris, yet instead of white or even brown hair, she had a shock of bright coppery hair, pulled back in a bun.

Fenris’ eyes had gone wide at the sight of her. “Varania?” The woman smiled sadly. “I…I remember you. We played in our master’s courtyard while Mother worked. You called me-”

“Leto. That’s your name.” Varania reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped. She didn’t meet Fenris’ eyes as she spoke, but rather seemed to focus on her own clasped hands. Something about her body language set off a red flag in Hawke’s mind, and she examined the elf closely.

She looked exhausted, as if she hadn’t slept well on her trip here. That was on par with Fenris, then, she thought wryly.

And yet, something about the elf’s expression, her inability to look them in the eye, still made Hawke uneasy. She clenched her staff more tightly, eyes narrowing.

Beside her, Fenris seemed to shake himself out of his reverie enough to finally to pick up on the tension in the air. “Why are you acting so strangely?” he asked. “Let’s sit and talk.”

“I cannot.” Varania finally met Fenris’ eyes, and she looked so…defeated.

Footsteps echoed behind her, heavy and full of authority. “Ah, my little Fenris,” an accented, haughty voice drawled. At the top of the stairs, a robed figure appeared, flanked by armored guards on each side. “You’ve always been so predictable.”

Fenris blanched, eyes widening. The man, who could be none other than the magister Danarius, continued down the stairs leisurely.

“I’m sorry it came to this, Leto,” Varania said softly.

“You led him here!” Fenris accused.

“Now now, Fenris, don’t blame your sister,” the magister admonished as he drew even with the elven woman. She averted her eyes once more, focusing on the floorboards between her feet. “She did what any good Imperial citizen should do.”

“I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius!” Fenris growled. Despite the venom in his voice, Hawke could see that he was scared, deeply so. “But I won’t let you kill me to get them back.”

Danarius laughed softly as his hired goons slowly closed in around them. “How little you know, my pet.” Fenris’ answering snarl was so loud in the relative quiet of the pub. The magister’s baleful eyes fell upon Hawke and examined her critically. “This is your new master, then? The Champion of Kirkwall? Impressive.”

Hawke stepped forward, between her friend and the Tevinter, hoping that the spiked armor and her height of over six feet made her look more intimidating than she felt. This was someone who’d not only been raised to be open and proud with their magic, but to relish in any opportunity to use it, to enjoy hurting others with it. Compared to that, what more was she than some backwoods apostate?

“Fenris doesn’t belong to _anyone_ ,” she snapped. Seeing how terrified Fenris had been the moment the magister appeared…just what had this man done to him? She shuddered to imagine.

Behind her, she could feel Fenris’ eyes on her back. She stood even straighter, not flinching from the magister’s gaze.

Danarius chuckled darkly. “Do I detect a note of jealousy? It’s not surprising. The lad _is_ rather skilled, isn’t he?”

“Shut your mouth, Danarius,” Fenris spat. His lyrium markings flared to life, lighting him up like a candle.

The Tevinter sighed, all traces of amusement gone from his face. “The word is ‘master’,” he ground out, power flickering in his palms as well. Faster than they could blink, the magister shot a bolt of energy towards Fenris. Hawke stepped in front of him once again and blocked it with a shield of energy.

Hawke staggered under the blow; he had to be the most powerful mage she’d come across yet. She dismissed the shield and stood tall again, staring down the Tevinter.

“You’ll have to go through me first,” she snarled.


	6. Alone

The brawl was bloody. Danarius wrapped himself in a shield, only dropping it briefly to attack.

Fenris was as swift as death itself, barely pausing even as he singlehandedly slew nearly every single goon the magister had brought. Hawke hovered close to the magister, keeping an eye on when his shield would falter, signaling it was about to be dropped. As soon as it did, Hawke leapt in.

Their staves collided, rattling her. Up close she could see the fine lines and silvery hair indicating age, but the magister’s strength was still considerable. He met her bared teeth with his own mocking grin.

“You really think you can take him from me?” Danarius sneered. Behind them, the last of the henchmen dropped with a groan into a spreading pool of his own blood.

“The only person _taking_ Fenris, is _himself_ ,” Hawke growled. She pushed away from the magister, who swung his staff again, power crackling-

Only to meet the edge of Fenris’ greatsword. Hawke stood back now, circling warily as her friend stared the Tevinter down. This wasn’t her fight to interfere with.

“Your life is _mine_ ,” he spat.

Their fight was a whirlwind of steel and fire, circling around each other like a jackal around wounded prey. Which man was which, Hawke couldn’t tell.

Both of them were breathing heavily; Danarius bleeding from a gash in his arm, Fenris nursing a burn on his leg.

“My, but you _have_ gotten some spine,” the magister panted.

“Careful, Danarius, or I’ll rip out yours,” Fenris snarled in return.

The elf launched a new flurry of attacks. Danarius’ sneer never wavered, but Hawke could see the glint of desperation in his eyes. Though his blasts of fire and lightning were formidable, it was clear the older man was unused to physical combat. And with his retinue dead, he had no backup against Fenris’ fury.

Fenris finally disarmed the magister, his sword knocking the staff from his hands. In another swift move, Fenris sunk his sword deep into Danarius’ middle.

The Tevinter gaped in shock at the weapon protruding from his stomach, which Fenris twisted slowly. The magister groaned in agony, and fell backwards.

Fenris bent down and grabbed Danarius by the throat, lifting him high. The lyrium markings already flickered to life, outlining Fenris’ rage-twisted features in shimmering blue-white light. The magister choked, blood dribbling from his lips.

“You are no longer my master,” Fenris snarled. There was a loud, wet crack, the magister’s head snapped backwards with a spray of blood. The elf dropped him unceremoniously on the floor, where he finally lay dead.

Fenris stood for a moment, chest heaving, before whipping his head to the side. Varania blanched under his glare.

“I had no choice, Leto,” she started to say, hands raised defensively.

“Stop calling me that!” Fenris snapped, stalking over to her. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he seemed to tower over his sister.

“He was going to make me his apprentice.” Varania continued. “I would have been a magister!”

“You sold out your own brother to become a magister?” he spat. Hawke felt her heart ache all the more for him; all of his hopes for family were falling apart in front of him, in the worst way he could probably imagine.

“You have no idea what we went through, what I’ve had to do since mother died!” Varania cried. “This was my only chance!”

Her words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Fenris advanced, hand raised, glowing brightly once more. “And now you have no chance at all.”

Varania cowered against the wall. Seconds from death, her gaze shot to Hawke. “Please don’t do this! Please tell him to stop!” she pleaded.

And though Hawke’s lip curled at the assumption, again, that she was in charge of Fenris… “Fenris, wait,” she said. “Don’t kill her.”

Fenris whirled around, his glare pinning Hawke. “And why not?” he demanded. “She was ready enough to see _me_ killed. What is she to me, other than just one more tool of the magisters?” Behind him, Varania looked like she would trade all the gold and power in the world for the ability to disappear into the wall behind her.

“You’re right,” Hawke agreed. At the words, Varania turned a shade paler. “But she’s also your sister. This is your _family_ , Fenris. At the end of the day, family is all you have. And to throw it away willingly…” She broke off, blinking away the moisture in her eyes. “I won’t blame you if you _do_ kill her. You’re within every right to. But please…consider otherwise first.”

Fenris held his stare, and Hawke could see the gears turning behind those beautiful green eyes, identical to his sister’s. One heartbeat passed, then another before he finally turned to face his sister once more.

“Get out,” he spat.

Varania didn’t wait to be told a second time. She scrambled away from the elf, who remained stock still, facing the wall.

Just before she reached the door, she stopped and turned. “You said you didn’t ask for this, but that’s not true,” she said, her expression unreadable. “You wanted it. You _competed_ for it. And when you won, you used the boon to have mother and I freed.”

Fenris finally turned. When she saw his expression, Hawke felt her heart weep at the devastation etched in every line and plane. “Why are you _telling_ me this?” he demanded, his voice breaking.

“Freedom was no boon,” Varania said bitterly. “I look on you, and I think _you_ received the better end of the bargain.” With that, she turned and vanished out the door.

Fenris stared after her for a long moment, shoulders slumped. Hawke kept quiet, watching as the agony in his expression dulled to a simmering, bitter resignation. When he finally spoke, Hawke thought she had never heard him sound so…defeated.

“I thought discovering my past would bring a sense of belonging, but I was wrong” he said quietly. “Magic has tainted that too. There is nothing to reclaim. I am alone.”

The ache in Hawke’s heart sharpened at the sheer desolation in his voice, his demeanor. She stepped forward, into his line of vision but respecting his personal space. “ _I’m_ here,” she said softly. The elf’s eyes rose slowly to meet hers, and despite the grief etched there, his lips twitched in a faint smile. He lifted his hand as if to cup Hawke’s face, but stopped at the sight of the gore still coating his clawed gauntlet. Hawke stood stock still, eyes wide.

The tenderness in his eyes at her words, the casual intimacy of that gesture – something told her that their history was much more complex than she’d been told.

Fenris coughed a bit, but the tenderness faded quickly as what had just happened came back to mind. “You heard what she said,” he said. He tried to sound angry, but instead he just sounded tired. So tired. “I wanted these. I _fought_ for them. I feel unclean, like this magic isn’t just etched into my skin, but has also stained my soul.” Hawke said nothing; everything she could think of to say would likely just make things worse. “Let’s go,” he said finally. “I need to get out of here.”

“Alright,” Hawke replied. He strode out the door without another word. Hawke went to follow, but a scuffling noise caught her attention. She turned, staff raised warily, but lowered it when she just found Corff cowering behind the bar. “Bloody fuckin’ hell!” he exclaimed, examining the mess that used to be the Hanged Man. “It’ll take me weeks to get it back to normal.”

Hawke fished in her pocket and pulled out her coin purse. She tossed it and it landed on the bar with a heavy _clink_. “Sorry, Corff,” she said with a grimace. “Let me know if that’s not enough to cover damages.”

“Damn good riddance to the likes of him,” the bartender replied, jerking his chin at the corpse of the magister in the corner. “And that was a decent thing you did, saving that girl,” he added. Hawke gave a half-smile, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“I sure hope so,” she replied.

Fenris was waiting outside for her, along with none other but Varric himself. His already wide eyes widened further at her blood-spattered armor and disheveled appearance. “What the everliving shit, Hawke!” he shouted, gesturing wildly. “You and the elf took on a _Tevinter magister_ on your _own_ without asking anybody for help-”

“Yes Varric, please shout louder how we just murdered a member of the magisterium of arguably the most _powerful country in Thedas_ ,” Hawke hissed. “I think Aveline or the viscount might’ve not heard you!”

Varric pursed his lips, his normally ruddy complexion pale. “What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded in a lower tone.

“It’s not like that was the plan in the first place,” she explained. She glanced at Fenris, but he stayed silent, not meeting their eyes. “Fenris was going to meet his sister. She betrayed him,” Hawke explained.

“Andraste’s dimpled asscheeks,” the dwarf sighed. “You both are magnets for trouble, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Hawke glanced again at Fenris. As if by silent cue, he walked off, disappearing quickly into lowtown’s winding streets. Hawke started after him, but stopped at the hand on her elbow.

“Give him some time,” Varric suggested softly. “I can’t imagine what he’s feeling right now, but I’d want some time if I were him.”

Hawke’s shoulders slumped. “You’re right, but…he just looked so lonely,” she said softly. “I don’t want him to feel like he doesn’t have anybody.”

“He knows, believe me,” the dwarf assured her. Hawke nodded, more at the sincerity in his voice than anything. “Give him a few hours, then he’ll likely be open to talk.”

Hawke clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good friend,” she said quietly. “To all of us.”


	7. A Second Confrontation

To Hawke’s credit, she managed to wait until dusk had fallen and crickets were beginning to sing their songs from the bushes before she cracked.

She’d changed from her bloody and, frankly, smelly armor some time ago into a soft cotton shirt and dark pants, with a pair of comfortable leather boots. The humid late-summer air had cooled with the coming of night, and Hawke deeply inhaled the evening air gratefully. Kirkwall was much warmer than Lothering, and though her body appeared to be used to the weather here, she couldn’t help but miss Ferelden’s significantly cooler atmosphere.

Hightown’s streets emptied quickly, all of the nobility retiring early as always. Hawke found herself alone before her short walk was done; there wasn’t a soul to witness as she knocked on Fenris’ manor door.

Nobody answered, but knowing Fenris, he wouldn’t be the type to either lock the door or answer anyway, she reasoned. Hawke opened the door quietly and peered into the dark interior.

Holes in the ceiling let in enough of the rapidly fading sunset to let her see her way across the foyer and up the stairs. Once again, soft voices floated through the cool air, and she reached the main bedroom to find Fenris, Varric, and Aveline chatting.

“You don’t need to stay in this pit anymore,” Varric was saying. “Not that you haven’t, you know, fixed it up nicely.”

“It’s falling apart,” Aveline said flatly. “And my ability to keep the seneschal from noticing is nearing its end.” Though her words were harsh, her tone softened, trying to take some sting from the words.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done, Aveline,” Fenris replied politely.

“But you’re _staying_!” Varric exclaimed in disbelief. “You could go anywhere now!”

“Perhaps I don’t wish to go anywhere.”

Aveline stood, scowling, and the dwarf shook his head. “Freedom must be a terrible burden, I guess,” he grumbled.

As they passed Hawke in the doorway, Aveline gave her a nod. Varric patted her arm, whether in support or wishing her luck talking to the elf, she didn’t know.

Hawke met Fenris’ gaze and raised an eyebrow in silent request. He jerked his head in response, and she finally entered the room and took Aveline’s vacated seat.

“They don’t understand,” Fenris sighed. “Yes, Danarius is dead, yet it…it doesn’t feel like it should.” The words were strained, as if he had to fight for them.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this what you wanted?” Hawke pointed out lightly.

“I would’ve thought so, at least. I thought if I didn’t need to run, to fight to stay alive, I could finally live as a free man does,” he said. “But how is that? My sister is gone, and I have nothing now. Not even an enemy.”

Hawke hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe that just means that you don’t have anything holding you back. You have a future that’s yours, wholeheartedly.”

Fenris seemed to consider this carefully. “An interesting thought,” he said after a moment. “It’s just…difficult to overlook the stain that magic has left on my life. If I seem bitter, it is not without cause. Perhaps it _is_ time to move forward. I just don’t know where that leads.” He shook his head.

“Well, wherever that leads, I hope it means we can stay together,” Hawke ventured. Fenris met her eyes and smiled softly.

“That is my hope, as well,” he replied.

To her mortification, Hawke felt a telltale blush rising at the words. She coughed a little, fiddling with the hem of her shirt in an attempt to draw attention away from her reddening face.

If she didn’t know better, she’d say this handsome, tortured-past, deadly warrior was trying to woo her. Complicated past, indeed, she thought wryly. What Varric had implicated, and what the facts were saying now, were two vastly different things.

Well shit, she realized, if ever there was a time to ask about that complicated past, this was probably it. Despite the tumultuous beginning of the day, Fenris seemed relatively content and good-spirited. Before the silence grew awkward, she steeled herself and spoke.

“Fenris?”

“Hmm?”

“How did we meet?”

If the elf was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. “Did Varric not include that in his many tales?”

“Yes, but I want to hear your view of it.” Hawke held his gaze as he considered, his eyes glazing a little as he thought back.

“It was six years ago,” he began slowly. “I was on the run, hiding here in the city, and thought I had a lead on finding out about my past. I hired someone to hire muscled help, under the pretense of recover stolen property. As luck would have it, he found you.” Fenris gave her one of his rare smiles, which she returned. “You did as you were asked, but the lead I thought I had was just a trap. You slew the slavers waiting for me to spring it, and even after all that you barely blinked when I revealed myself and ripped out the heart of the one remaining slaver.” He shook his head in amazement, and continued.

“I explained myself, who I was, and asked your help searching this manor to see if Danarius remained. And even with the sketchy details, even though you’d been lied to about what you’d been hired to do…you agreed. Nearly without question,” he added with a chuckle. “He’d merely left shades for us to fight, Danarius was long gone, however. And when I saw you casting spells as you fought, I was…somewhat harsh towards you when I confronted you about it. Your brother stepped to your defense, however. ‘If you have a problem with my sister, you have a problem with me’, he said.”

Hawke clasped her hand over her mouth, eyes shining with the threat of tears. Carver, who always clashed against her, who always had some snarky comment about her and Bethany being the reason they had to lay low from the templars, Carver who always seemed to resent being in his older sister’s shadow…he had defended her, had defended her _magic_ , against a total stranger.

Fenris watched Hawke struggle with the sudden burst of emotion, his expression open and understanding. After a moment, she nodded at him to continue.

“Even after my initial distrust of you, you took me up on my offer of assistance,” he said. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together, drawing Hawke’s eyes to the red strip of cloth he kept tied around one of his wrists. “Over the years, through our various escapades, we came to understand, trust, and I dare say even rely upon one another. And on the times where I’ve truly needed your help,” he said, voice dropping, “like with Hadriana – or today – you’ve always come through for me. Always.”

Hawke sat silently, considering everything the elf had said. “After we came to trust and rely on each other,” she said slowly, “did we ever…I mean, was there any attraction? Between us, I mean?”

Judging from Fenris’ expression, whatever everyone had been avoiding saying to her, she’d just stumbled right to the base of it. “There was an…attraction,” he repeated carefully. Hawke raised her brows in question, and he sighed. “We teased for a few years, nothing serious, but when we realized the flirtation wasn’t just for fun, we still…held off. Mostly because I had never let myself be that close to someone, that vulnerable. It came to a head after I killed Hadriana, three years ago. I went to your manor, restless and on edge. I don’t know _why_ I went, but I did. We talked, though it did little to calm me. Eventually my tension snapped, and-”

Fenris cut off, a blush blooming in his high cheekbones at the memory. He coughed slightly. “We ended up in bed together. It was a combination of stress relief as well as a culmination of the building attraction.”

Hawke blinked, a blush staining her cheeks as well. So _that_ was the complicated history everyone had danced around. Though it’s not like sleeping with somebody was that unusual, she groused to herself. Varric had made this unnecessarily complicated.

“So are we still involved, then?” Hawke asked, gesturing between the two of them. Fenris shook his head.

“No, I…afterwards, it was just too much too quickly,” he said softly. “I wasn’t ready, so I broke it off.”

“Oh.” Try as she might, Hawke couldn’t explain the sinking feeling in her stomach at the knowledge. “How did I react?”

Fenris hesitated. “You weren’t happy about it, but you understood,” he said after a second. Hawke pursed her lips – he didn’t sound like he was lying, but she had a suspicion that there was a little more to it than just that.

“Well, that was the end of it, I suppose,” she suggested. Fenris nodded, just a little too quickly.

“To be honest, we hadn’t talked about it since that night,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to, and soon afterwards you were dealt the loss of your mother. You had enough in your life without rehashing old news.”

Hawke felt that familiar lump in her throat that happened whenever she thought about her mother – whom she’d never see again. Just like Bethany.

She let her eyes roam over the room – a bookshelf stuffed with tattered tomes, a rickety bed with threadbare sheets, Fenris’ armor set carefully on the desk, a really ugly statue shoved into the corner. As she processed everything, despite the sudden somber turn the conversation had taken, she couldn’t stop a tired giggle from slipping out.

Fenris raised a single, dark eyebrow, eliciting another chuckle from her. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s just…the only sex I’ve had in nearly a decade, and I can’t even remember it,” Hawke snorted. “That’s just my damn luck.”

Fenris gave an amused smile of his own. “Memories can be tricky like that,” he replied.


	8. Back in the Thick of It

In the weeks following the confrontation at the Hanged Man, things got so busy in Kirkwall that Hawke had little time to think about Fenris and whatever past they’d had, ongoing or not. The tension between the templars and the mages, both Circle certified and apostate, was rising uncontrollably, and the city looked to its Champion as a neutral party to mediate the disputes. The fact that she was herself a mage didn’t seem to have an effect on this, much to her combined amusement and unrelenting anxiety.

Neither Anders nor Orsino had any luck returning her memory, though the latter had deemed her healthy and able enough to do any more “work” she deemed fit. Hawke had no luck recovering any memories on her own, either, nightmare or otherwise. However, now that Hawke was technically in perfect health, Meredith wasted no time summoning her to her office for another job.

Hawke puffed hot air into her hands as she walked, the Knight Commander’s summons shoved into her pocket. Fall was nearing its end, and what had been crisp mornings had deepened into the beginnings of winter. It was still mild compared to Lothering, of course, but that didn’t stop Hawke from bundling up in a fur-lined cloak when she set out for the Gallows.

Soon Hawke stood in front of the heavy wooden door of the Knight Commander’s office. A muffled voice bid her to enter.

The office was sparsely furnished, with only a single large desk, a bookshelf, and a low table with more papers and books stacked upon it. The Knight Commander herself stood behind the desk, leaning over it reading a report. She looked up as Hawke pushed the door open.

“Ah, Champion,” she said, straightening. “Glad to see you up and about. Has your memory returned?”

“I’m afraid not,” Hawke replied. She approached the desk, but maintained a respectful distance. “Orsino says I’m perfectly healthy, but I’ll be damned if I can remember anything past waking up in Kirkwall all of a sudden.”

“A shame. We’re fortunate the maleficar didn’t cause you even more severe an injury.” Meredith picked up the report she’d been reading. “I wish I could allow you more time to recover, but reports of blood mages are once more on the rise. I want you and your associates to hunt them down.” She held the report out to Hawke, who took it and began reading.

“All due respect,” she said, scanning the report. Maleficar hiding deep in the wounded coast, preying on travelers heading in and out of the city. “But wouldn’t your templars be better suited for this? They can negate spellcasting, after all.”

“I have tried, but any time they show their selves, the blood mages retreat into hiding,” Meredith replied. “You and your companions will draw them out as possible victims. And when they reveal themselves, you will strike. Leave none of them alive to make any more victims.”

Hawke reread the report, frowning. “I’m not sure about this,” she admitted. “Kill first, ask questions later? Do you have proof that they’re maleficar?”

Meredith leaned forward, bracing her hands on the desk between them. “You may not be a templar, Serah Hawke, but this is my operation and you _will_ follow my orders on the matter.”

Hawke met her cool stare steadily. Ignoring the little voice in the back of her head that said this was better left alone, she said, “And if I don’t want to be part of this operation? I never remember agreeing to do the templars’ dirty work.”

Meredith’s eyes were like chips of ice as she examined the apostate, head to toe. “I’ll just assume the flippant attitude is due to your amnesia, and not because of some character flaw you possess. Allow me to remind you, _I know you are a mage._ I know you associate with other apostates. I even know _who_ those apostates are. And at my sufferance, I allow you and your _friends_ to remain outside of the Circle, on the stipulation that you occasionally perform some work for me.”

Hawke was silent for a moment, weighing the Knight Commander’s words. “You make a convincing argument,” she said eventually.

Meredith snorted. “That is all,” she said dismissively, returning her attention to the reports on her desk.

 

In the end, only Fenris and Merrill weren’t too busy to accompany her. They headed out of the city shortly before midday, out the single gate that led inland. Fenris took point, Hawke following behind, with Merrill bringing up the rear.

“Do you really think we’ll have to kill all of these mages?” Merrill worried.

“If we’re lucky,” Fenris muttered.

“I fully intend on trying to talk to them first,” Hawke replied, scowling at Fenris’ back. “Meredith can be a little…eager on things like this, but we don’t know for sure if they’re actually maleficar or just apostates who’ve resorted to mugging or what have you. If they attack us, then…we’ll defend ourselves, naturally. But until proven otherwise, I’m going to give them a chance to end this peacefully.”

Fenris snorted. “Your soft heart will be your undoing,” he warned.

He and Hawke hadn’t talked more about their ‘history’, but over the past couple of months, Hawke had come to better know all of her friends, the elf in particular. And despite his insistence that whatever they’d had, hadn’t continued…Hawke couldn’t help but wonder if that was actually true.

Several days ago, in the long minutes before Hawke could finally fall asleep at night, she’d been thinking about it all and come to the realization: Fenris had decided he was done with the relationship, but Hawke hadn’t. It was clear that she’d held onto her feelings for him, whatever they had been, but Fenris didn’t reciprocate. His behavior now was likely him trying to spare her feelings, by making her think the end of the relationship was mutually decided.

Hawke kept all of this to herself, half afraid of confirmation. Whatever she had or hadn’t felt for the elf, she certainly didn’t love him now – but she couldn’t deny an attraction.

“Where are we even going?” Merrill asked, drawing Hawke out of her reverie. Fenris glanced back, waiting on Hawke’s answer. She pulled Meredith’s report out of her coat pocket, scanning it once more.

“Gulcher’s Pass,” Hawke replied slowly.

Fenris sighed. “That’s miles out, it’ll take hours to get there.”

“Are we going to have to camp overnight?” Hawke asked.

“I don’t believe so,” Fenris replied. “We might get back late, but we ought to be back in the city tonight.”

The rest of the trip out was quiet, with only an occasional remark between them. The steep hills, both ascending and descending, soon had Hawke sweating through her coat, despite the chilly air. She shrugged the coat off and slung it over her arm. Fenris didn’t even seem to be breathing heavily despite the exercise, and Merrill seemed to have an inexhaustible inner source of energy that showed itself via daisies and sunshine.

“The pass should be around this corner,” Fenris said eventually. Hawke looked up. Nothing about the sandy ground and craggy stone cliffs seemed familiar, but she assumed Fenris knew his way around the area.

“We should be careful,” Merrill said. “If these mages really are mugging people they could have a trap set up anywhere around here.”

Hawke groaned. “Call me paranoid, but you saying that just makes me worry that an ambush will happen any moment now.”

“You’re being paranoid,” Merrill chirped. Hawke turned, walking backwards, a smart comment on her mouth-

Something heavy struck Hawke from behind, hard. Agony instantly blossomed in her left shoulder and she fell with a cry, barely hearing Merrill and Fenris shouting.

Turning her head was excruciating, but she managed to just see the fletching of an arrow – which now protruded from her shoulder blade. The shouts of the ambushers grew louder as Fenris’ face filled her swimming vision. “You have to get up,” he said urgently. He slid an arm around her middle and pulled her upright, his sword already in his other hand.

Hawke hissed in pain at the movement. Her left arm was useless; a sheen of sweat slicked her body even as she grasped her staff with her right hand. As she watched, Merrill held off the attackers – just bandits, not mages. Roots ripped up out of the ground and wrapped around the bandits, strangling some, whipping others against the unforgiving rock.

With a last worried glance at her, Fenris ran to Merrill’s side. As much as the two’s personalities clashed, Hawke had to admit they were a formidable fighting team. Fenris leapt from opponent to opponent, bringing them down with steel as often as with the phasing ability his lyrium tattoos afforded.

It was very lucky for Hawke that none of the bandits survived the elves’ combined fury; even as the last of the ambushers fell, her knees wobbled dangerously. She sank to the ground, limbs trembling.

Her vision blurred. _Shit_ , she thought hazily. Something was wrong. She’d been injured plenty of times, some worse than this. Why was she so weak so quickly?

Fenris’ knees hit the sand in her line of vision as a second set of footsteps stopped behind her. Fenris jerked off his now-bloody gauntlets and rolled her onto her stomach, his hands exceedingly gentle. Hawke groaned; the movement didn’t cause any extreme pain, but rather made the whole world spin around her nauseatingly. Fenris cursed at the same time realization rose in her swimming head.

“Poison.”


	9. The Elf and the (Elf)Root

Hawke dimly heard Fenris saying something to Merrill, who responded unhappily. A set of footsteps faded off into the distance, and then Hawke was being lifted, careful of the arrow.

Fenris painstakingly shifted her onto his back. Hawke was faintly aware of something soft brushing her face; she cracked an eye to find Fenris’ hair against her cheek. Soft, and such a comforting scent. She closed her eyes again, giving in to the rocking motion of the elf’s steps and the warm, suffocating dark.

An indeterminable amount of time later, Hawke felt herself being gently laid on a pebbly, shifting ground; on her stomach, to avoid aggravating the arrow wound.

“I’m going to have to remove the arrow, but it’s lodged in the bone in your shoulder,” Fenris’ voice informed her. His voice sounded distorted, as if she were underwater. “But even once it’s out, the poison is already in your system. And I don’t know enough about poisons to make an antidote.”

Even through her drugged stupor, she could hear the frustration in his voice. She managed to open her eyes. Fenris was rummaging through his pack, setting aside a flask of water, a loaf of bread, needle and thread, a dagger, a stamina potion-

“F-Fenris…”

The elf was instantly at her side. “Hawke, are you in pain?” His beautiful green eyes burned with intensity. He took her hand in his, and his frown deepened at how hot her skin felt.

“The poison,” she whispered. “It’s magebane. I can’t…I can’t feel my magic.”

Fenris swore again. “You healing yourself is out of the question then. But that can’t be the only thing on there, magebane isn’t toxic otherwise.”

Hawke let her eyes drift shut again. Tired, she was so tired-

“Hawke, you have to stay awake.” The urgency was back in Fenris’ voice; she felt his hand cupping her cheek, dragging her back to consciousness. “I sent Merrill to get help, but it could be hours before she returns with help.” His hands gently probed the area around the wound lightly, but Hawke still hissed at the contact. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to numb the pain. The tip will be lodged in your bone and could be bent.”

Even with her magic gone, Hawke still felt Fenris’ lyrium tattoos flare into life above her. The tender skin around the arrow tingled, and she shuddered under the sensation: simultaneously like ice and hot coal.

Agony flared in her shoulder; blinding, excruciating pain like she’d never experienced – no, that wasn’t true, she’d once felt her belly ripped open, her lifeblood spilling out past her hands, hands that now scrabbled in the rough sand for traction-

Unbelievable pressure on the arrow, hot and cold delving deeper into her flesh, searching. A pitiful wail reached her ears…her own voice, pleading for relief.

A faint scrape and a pop, one last flare of pain – and it was over.

Hawke lay on the ground, breathing heavily, trembling from head to foot. Any trace of her earlier faintness was gone as she panted, finally aware of the pebbles pressing uncomfortably against her cheek.

There was a clattering sound, and she opened her eyes to see a bloodied arrow dropped on the ground in front of her.

“It’s out.” Fenris’ voice sounded strained. “I don’t know what to do for the poison, besides giving you a stamina potion-”

“Elfroot,” Hawke ground out. The pain was slowly fading down to a low throbbing, though her swimming head felt no better. “Get…elfroot. The whole plant.”

“I’ll be back soon,” the elf promised. She felt him brush her hair off of her sweaty brow, and somehow, could swear he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. Then, he was gone.

How long he was gone for, she didn’t know. She’d faded out of consciousness on the cold ground by time he returned, shaking her awake. “Hawke, you _have_ to stay awake,” he said firmly. “I have the elfroot. What do I do next?”

She groaned. “The root. Cut it open. The sap stops swelling and numbs.”

Fenris worked as she spoke, expertly slicing the stem from the root, rinsing the dirt off with his water flask, and cutting off the fattest part of the root. He sliced it in half, and after rinsing the blood and dirt from the arrow-wound, lightly laid the exposed root across the ragged edges.

Hawke sucked in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. “Andraste’s fucking pyre,” she swore, her whole body tensing at the contact. Useful as the hardy little plant might be, the healing sap stung like a hot coal had been set on her skin.

Fenris tutted as he set to stripping the leaves from the plant and rinsing them too. “At least your filthy tongue is still with us,” he muttered. Despite the verbal jab, she could hear the abject relief in his voice. If she had the energy to swear, she was going to be alright.

“Not like your tongue is any better,” she bit out. Instead of a response, the elf held the leaves in front of her lips – for her to eat, she realized. She’d done this before in a pinch, she remembered, but she also remembered just how bitter they tasted. Fighting a grimace, she opened her mouth and allowed him to push the rough leaves past her lips. She chewed, grimaced again, and managed to swallow the disgusting wad of vegetation. The action seemed to cost her most of her energy, and she allowed her eyes to slip shut once more.

Hawke heard the clacking of flint being struck, and moments later the light of a small but growing campfire glowed through her heavy eyelids. After a minute, she asked, “How long has Merrill been gone?”

Fenris sighed. She felt his weight settle next to hers, the gravel shifting under him. “I’m not sure. A couple hours, perhaps. She’ll likely have just reached the city gates.” The two were quiet for a long moment, watching the fire. Fenris slowly fed it bigger pieces of driftwood he’d collected at some point, until he was satisfied with it. “With the elfroot – did you learn that from Anders?”

Hawke fought off a yawn. Her head was slowly clearing, but her body was just so tired. “No, my…my dad taught me,” she said softly. “He was very outdoorsy, probably from years of being an apostate on the run. He taught me…” here, an actual yawn forced its way out. Fenris’ hand settled lightly on her lower back, rubbing soothing circles. “He taught me more than just hiding from templars.”

The elf gave a faint chuckle.

“Fenris?”

“Hmm?”

“Merrill’s gonna make it back in time, right?”

He pursed his lips. “That woman has as much common sense in her head as you have in your little toe. But regardless of that, you’ll be fine. The only question is if that woman returns with help in a couple of hours, or if I carry you back in the morning.”

Hawke moved to push herself upright, but fell back with a groan. Fenris was immediately there, his hand on her good shoulder, holding her down with a gentle touch.

“You mustn’t move,” he urged. “You’ll undo the good the elfroot has done.”

“Help me sit up.”

“Hawke-”

“Please.”

Fenris pursed his lips, but acquiesced. A groan slipped past her lips, and he paused, apologizing already. Hawke waved his concerns away with her good hand, and a moment later, she was upright.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a low voice. She slumped against him, and his arm wrapped around her middle, keeping her more or less vertical, but being careful of her wound. “Do you need water or anything?”

“I’m fine,” she said sleepily. She was a half-foot taller than the elf, but slumped as she was, her head nestled in the soft spot where his neck met his chest. It would’ve been more comfortable without the chest plate or the shoulder spikes, but…this was still nice. So close, his scent was so comforting.

His free hand hesitated in the air for a moment before settling on her arm, warm and heavy.

“Fenris…thank you. For everything,” Hawke murmured. Her eyes drifted shut, despite the shiver that worked its way up her body. Fenris reached over and grabbed her fur-lined coat, which she hadn’t realized was still around, and pulled it over her.

“Get some rest,” was all he said. Hawke gave another huge yawn, wincing at the tinge in her back, and settled closer to the elf. His arm tightened around her, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “Whatever happens, by morning we’ll be home.”

Hawke was asleep before he finished speaking.


	10. A Confession and a Request

Murmuring voices surrounded her. A soft hand laid on her back, and cooling magic spilled over her – sinking deep into her body, easing away the heat of the swelling, of the poison coursing through her.

“…safe to move her,” someone was saying quietly. Hawke felt herself being gently lifted and settled against a solid and warm surface. Something soft brushed her cheek, and a familiar scent washed over her.

“…did the right thing,” another voice added distantly. The person carrying her simply shifted and began walking. The rocking motion quickly sent Hawke back to the depths of unconsciousness.

It felt like it took a long time to emerge from sleep. When she finally opened her eyes, above her wasn’t stars or tree branches, but the beams and plaster of her own ceiling. She turned her head and winced at the shock of pain the movement sent down her neck and shoulder.

“You seem to be making a habit out of this,” a voice teased. Hawke turned to the other side; Anders was seated in the chair beside the bed, looking tired but relieved to see her awake. He stood and came over, checking her temperature with a quick touch to the forehead. “Though I hope this time you’ve retained your memories.”

“Most of them,” Hawke said. Her voice was raspy, as if she hadn’t spoken for days. “Fenris brought me back?”

“Merrill got word to me that you were injured and possibly poisoned,” the healer replied. He swept a hand over her sheet-covered body, soft blue light spilling forth. “We got there in time to heal the worst of your shoulder and to negate the last of the poison. Good thinking with the elfroot, by the way. It probably prevented any infection, or worse injury from the poison.”

The magic faded from his hands, and he helped Hawke sit up carefully. He moved her pillow behind her to better prop her up against the headboard. “My shoulder feels much better,” Hawke said hesitantly. Her arm was in a sling, but indeed, it wasn’t as agonizing as it had been yesterday.

“I was able to heal the tear in the muscle, but there’s no way to avoid scarring,” Anders said, his voice turning professional, brisk. “Likely your range of motion and strength will be limited from now on. Once you’re healed completely you’ll have to re-learn how to fight with your staff. Before that, of course, you’ll need at least a few days of bed rest.”

“Awesome,” Hawke groaned.

Anders smiled. “You’re home, safe and alive. That’s always a bonus,” he said softly.

“You’re right. Of course,” she sighed. After a second, she asked hesitantly, “Where’s Fenris?”

The healer huffed a breath. “He’s waiting downstairs. I told him he needed to let you rest. And frankly, he needed rest too.” He handed her a glass of water which had been on her bedside table, and she drank gratefully. He brushed imaginary dust from his coat, and headed for the door. “I’ll let him know you’re awake,” he added softly, and shut the door behind him.

Hawke leaned her head back and sighed. Bedrest, just when she was finally ready to be out again. Along with an injury that happened while following Meredith’s orders. Maybe it was time to retire, she mused.

A quiet knock sounded at the door, and at her word, the door clicked open. Fenris appeared in the doorway, and a relieved smile broke out on his face at the sight of her upright and clear-eyed. “You’re awake,” he exclaimed. He closed the door behind him and walked over, taking Anders’ vacated seat. “How do you feel?”

“Tired and sore, but otherwise fine,” she replied. “Anders said to take it easy for a few days, but I think I avoided the worst of it.”

“I’m grateful,” Fenris said softly. He took her hand in his. He’d left his clawed gauntlets off, and his calloused palms were warm against her skin. “Seeing you lying there, helpless, I…” His voice faltered, and his gaze dropped to their hands.

Hawke watched him, considering. When he remained silent, she spoke.

“Fenris…we need to talk,” she said carefully. His eyes jumped back up to hers, immediately wary.

“About what?” he asked.

“You told me that we slept together, but it didn’t work out,” she said. “And for a while, I thought that it was because you weren’t interested in me like that anymore, and was trying to spare my feelings. It seemed like you didn’t reciprocate whatever feelings I had for you, before I lost my memory.” She dropped her gaze, watching their hands clasped on the bed beside her. “But the way you’ve been acting, how you reacted when I was hurt…I’m starting to doubt that’s entirely true.”

Fenris let out a breath. “You…are right,” he admitted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hawke asked softly.

“I didn’t want to hurt you further,” he explained. “When you woke up with your memories gone, you were just so devastated learning about your family. It didn’t feel right to add to that burden.”

“What about after? I asked you what happened, and you didn’t tell the whole truth,” she accused.

“I know,” he sighed. “I was afraid of what you would say. And also…I didn’t know if it was possible for you to come to love me again. You’re still you, but even knowing what happened to Bethany, Carver, and your mother, you were…happier. More open. It made me realize that all the loss, all the trauma, must have hurt you more deeply than any of us realized,” he said in a low voice. “Seeing you lifted of that burden, even with the knowledge of it…I didn’t want to risk you falling for me again, only to be hurt by me holding you at arm’s length.”

“But _why_ are you keeping me at a distance?” she pressed. “Fenris, I know you must’ve realized that I’ve come to care for you the past few months. And I know you care for me, deeply.”

Fenris finally met her stare. “I told you I broke it off because it was too much, too fast. While that’s true…it’s not the entire story. After we made love, and fell asleep…I dreamed. I _remembered._ When I woke up, for just a moment, I could remember _everything._ My whole life.” His hand slid from hers and he stared at his palms, as if his stare could burn away the lyrium carved into his skin. “Then it all slipped away. Losing it all again, feeling my memories vanish once more…it hurt too much, all on top of suddenly being so vulnerable. I wasn’t ready for it.” He shook his head. “I felt like a fool. I thought it better if you hated me. And after your memory was gone…I decided I would have to be content with friendship.”

“And…now?” Hawke said hesitantly.

Their eyes met, forest green against ice blue. “Now, I’m realizing what a fool I’ve been,” he said softly. “I’ve almost lost you more times than I can bear to remember. You nearly died dueling the Arishok; then you lost all of your memories of Kirkwall, of me, of _us._ And then last night, you could’ve succumbed to either those bandits’ blades or poison. And all of that, before I could tell you all of this. I can’t apologize for needing space, but I should’ve told you sooner once I decided I _was_ ready. I should’ve told you how I truly felt.”

“Which is what?” Hawke breathed. Fenris’ gaze sharpened.

“Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you,” he said softly, fervently. His hand clasped hers again. “I’m truly sorry. I should’ve begged your forgiveness long ago. I…I was actually planning on telling you this, just days before you lost your memory. I know it’s not the same, but…I hope you can forgive me now.”

She tugged on his hand, and he stood, leaning in over her. She wrapped her arms around him; after a disbelieving heartbeat, his arms slid around her in return. “If it means anything at all,” she said softly, “from everything I’ve learned…that version of me would’ve forgiven you. Just like I do now.”

His body shuddered in relief against hers, and he pressed his face into her hair as his arms tightened around her. “If there’s a future to be had, I’ll walk into it gladly at your side,” he murmured into her ear.

Her hand stroked soothingly up and down his back, fingertips tracing over the seams of his tunic. “I wouldn’t have you anywhere else,” she replied quietly.

They stayed that way for a long minute before Fenris finally pulled back. He stayed close, nearly nose-to-nose with her. “I…would it be alright if I kissed you?” he asked hesitantly. “I don’t want to push you into something you might not be comfortable with yet-”

Hawke laid her hand gently on his cheek, and smiled. “It would absolutely be alright,” she replied. Fenris’ sigh of relief cut off as he tilted his head and their lips met, soft and hesitant

He pulled back just a little, gauging her reaction, but Hawke pressed forward. They kissed again, still gentle, but warm and claiming.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless and pink in the face. “Have I mentioned just how ecstatic I am that you’re still alive?” he murmured.

Hawke chuckled. “You’ve made it clear, at least,” she replied. He sat on the bed next to her, their hands still intertwined. “On the occasion you aren’t clear in your wording, you apparently make it up with kissing.”

Fenris laughed at that, his smile warm. Hawke matched his smile, and he leaned in and pressed yet another kiss to her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left kind comments - your support helps me keep writing and stay inspired. <3


	11. Calm Before the Storm

Hawke ended up compromising with Anders: she stayed in bed for one day, and took it easy around the manor for the next. After that, she took to the large dining room, which she’d been told she’d converted into a training room shortly after moving into the mansion. The furniture had been cleared out and light padding had been added to the floor. In a small alcove to the side, a short shelf with towels, corked flasks of water, and a small first aid box. Next to it was a tall basket with wooden practice staves, one of which she now had and was swinging around.

She crouched, holding the staff out in front of her, leveled at an imaginary enemy. Narrowing her eyes, Hawke lunged, twirling the staff expertly and slicing the air in front of her with a grunt. Her shoulder sang with pain and she stumbled, grimacing.

“Mistress, don’t you think you should be resting?”

She turned to find Orana in the doorway, concern etched all over her pale face. Hawke wiped sweat from her brow and walked over, taking the damp towel the elf offered.

“I’m fine,” Hawke huffed, catching her breath. “I just need to get used to it, that’s all.”

“You’ve been at it for over an hour, though. Surely you should take a break? Maybe have something to eat?” Orana worried.

Hawke laid a hand on the elf’s thin shoulder. “Thank you for the concern,” she said kindly. “I’m fine, really.”

“Well, alright,” Orana sighed. “Please just don’t push yourself too hard, Mistress.”

Hawke cringed. “Please, Orana, just Hawke is fine.”

“Yes, Mi- Hawke.”

Hawke spent the next several weeks regaining her ordinary mobility and strength, and eventually taking on small jobs here and there. Fenris spent a lot of time at the Amell mansion, either sparring with her or just observing. To help keep up his own strength, he’d claimed, while he waited for her to recover hers.

Or to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t overexert herself, Hawke had replied with a light kiss to his sheepish smile.

Hawke at least refrained from taking jobs from either Orsino or Meredith for a couple of weeks. It was only partially because she needed time to recover, or her lighthearted excuse of getting tired of being severely injured on missions for the two; the tension between mages and templars had reached breaking point, and it felt like it could snap at any moment.

It wasn’t that Hawke felt no sympathy for either side; she understood the oppression the mages faced, especially within the Circle, but she also knew magic _was_ dangerous, and that mages were just as susceptible to corruption and fear and hatred just like anybody else; most people weren’t able to throw lightning or use blood magic when that happened, however.

On top of all that, Hawke knew that if she _did_ pick a side, and if it was a choice that Knight Commander Meredith disapproved of, she could throw Hawke into the circle with a word, along with Merrill and Anders. That is, if she didn’t have them executed or made Tranquil just to make an example of them.

Still, Hawke thought to herself as she munched on an apple slice one early spring afternoon. Even with her resolution to keep safely out of the middle of it, she had the sinking feeling that one day she’d be called upon to choose a side.

Despite the tension in the city being near-palpable, Varric seemed determined to maintain some sense of normalcy.

Hawke walked into the dwarf’s suite in the Hanged Man one evening, a letter from Varric in hand. “Are you gonna explain this?” she said lazily, waving the parchment in the air.

Varric looked up from where he sat at the long table, book in hand. “It’s a letter, Hawke,” he quipped. “Or did you lose that part of your memory as well?”

“If I wasn’t afraid I’d make you even shorter, I’d smack you,” Hawke sighed, sitting across from him. “I _mean_ are you gonna explain the cryptic letter asking me to come here at 8 o’clock sharp, saying it was very important but not saying _why_?”

He laid his hand on his hairy chest, feigning hurt. “Short jokes? Seriously? Just because _some_ people get to enjoy being six feet and four inches tall, doesn’t mean we’re all so lucky.”

Hawke chuckled and flexed a bicep, pressing a kiss to the bulging muscle. “My height isn’t the only impressive thing about me, don’t forget,” she replied. “I could bench-press Carver in full armor, if he’d ever let me.”

Varric waved a hand dismissively, but chuckled all the same. “You’ve used that line on me already. Twice.”

“You’ll have to forgive me – I’ve lost my memory, after all.” Hawke leaned back in her chair and propped her feet up on the table. “Now are you gonna tell me what the letter’s about, or not?”

“I wanted to play Wicked Grace again,” he explained.

“With only two people?”

“Everyone else was invited too, they’re just late like usual,” Varric replied. He marked his place in his book with a colorful strip of cloth, and set it aside. “And besides, we haven’t had a chance to talk recently, just us. Are you…alright?” he asked, all joking gone from his voice.

Hawke smiled at the concern. “I must’ve been the best friend it’s possible to be, to have all these people so worried about me,” she teased gently. Varric’s mouth quirked in a smile in response, but he still watched her for an answer. She sighed. “I’m more or less adjusted to living here,” she explained. “I miss Mother and Bethany and Carver…though knowing he’s alive makes it easier. My memory is still gone, but I’ve come to accept it’s probably gone for good. As for Fenris and I…it’s good. It’s wonderful, really.”

Though the dwarf still looked concerned, his eyes softened. “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied. A knock sounded behind them and they both turned to see Fenris standing in the doorway, fist still raised where he’d tapped his knuckles on the doorframe.

“Am I early?” he asked, walking in. He gave Hawke one of his rare smiles as he sat next to her, apparently already knowing the plan for the evening.

“No, you’re on time, everyone else is just late apparently,” Hawke explained with a chuckle. The elf’s hand settled on her knee under the table and squeezed.

“Watch who you’re accusing of being late,” a sultry voice pouted from behind them. Isabela strolled in, with Merrill. The pirate shot Hawke a wink as she sat next to Varric, and Merrill brushed a hand lightly against Hawke’s shoulder as she passed and sat on Isabela’s other side, next to Fenris. Fenris gave her a distasteful glance, but held his tongue.

“So we’re just waiting on Aveline and Anders?” Merrill chirped from the end of the table.

“Looks like it,” Isabela answered. She examined her close-trimmed fingernails, and picked at an invisible speck.

“Did you tell everybody but me that we’re playing Wicked Grace?” Hawke accused Varric. He held his hands up in defense.

“Guilty as charged. You might not’ve come out for just a game, but I know you, and you’re a nosy bastard,” he chuckled. “Give you a hint of a secret, and you’ll follow it through for nothing else but your own satisfaction.”

“That’s cruel of you, Varric,” Hawke sniffed. “Perceptive, but cruel.”

Beside her, Fenris let out a short laugh which Hawke returned with a smile. Across the table, Isabela watched, amused, and gave Hawke a warm smile when their eyes met.

Aveline and Anders arrived shortly, and Varric produced a deck of cards from one of the multitude of pockets of his coat.

Two hours in, and after several drinks each (aside from Merrill, who would end up nursing the one mug of beer the whole night but still end up drunk), Isabela somehow managed to convince everyone to raise the stakes – losers of each round would sacrifice an article of clothing. Once the door to Varric’s suite had been closed, everyone agreed.

By time one in the morning rolled around, they were all in various states of dress: Varric and Isabela managed to hold onto all of their clothes, somehow. Merrill had removed her over-shirt and foot wrappings but was otherwise dressed; Hawke was about the same, in just pants and her undershirt, though her breast band hung over the back of her chair. Fenris had turned a surprising but adorable shade of scarlet when she’d managed to undo it without even removing her shirt, and had pulled it out of her sleeve in one smooth move. Even now, down to just his leggings, the elf was studiously ignoring the strap of cloth and leather.

Aveline had been losing all night as well, but had been milking it. First one shoe, then the other, then a sock, the other sock, then finally her jacket when everybody had booed at her trying to pass off her headband as a piece of clothing.

Anders, on the other hand, wore his feathered robe. _Only_ the robe.

“I think…I ought to head home,” Hawke chuckled, fighting a yawn and losing. She set her cards down in the discard pile and stood, collecting her clothes and shoes. “It’s late and I’m tired of forking over my money to you two.”

Varric and Isabela laughed in return, but seemed to agree. Merrill was already passed out, her head lying on her hand of cards that nobody had the heart to tell her were visible to the whole table.

“I’ll take Kitten home,” Isabela offered, leaning over the elf. “Since I brought her here.”

“I need to get going too,” Anders piped up. “Always lots to do.”

“Same here. I have duty in the morning,” Aveline groused, already pulling her socks back on.

“I suppose I’ll retire as well,” Fenris said to nobody in particular. He turned to Hawke as everybody else busied getting dressed – or in Isabela’s case, wrestling Merrill’s limp body back into her jacket. “Would you like me to walk you home?” he asked, offering his arm with a raised eyebrow.

Hawke giggled and wrapped her arm through his. “Wow, so gentlemanly,” she teased.

The streets were quiet as they made their way back up to Hightown, chatting quietly, fingers entwined. The first crickets of spring were finally starting to emerge, and they chirped softly as the couple passed.

“It’s been six months,” Fenris mentioned as they finally reached the top of the giant staircase leading out of the slums. “Can you still remember nothing?”

“I’ve remembered little bits and pieces here and there, but for the most part it’s still gone.” Hawke sighed. Fenris’ thumb rubbed against the back of her hand soothingly. “I’ve become convinced it’s gone for good.”

“You’ve got to hold onto hope,” the elf replied firmly. “Your memory will likely return when you least expect it. At least, it did for me.”

“You mean when we had sex?”

Fenris coughed once, and Hawke chuckled at the blush blooming high on his cheekbones. “Ah, yes.” They were quiet for a moment before the elf squinted at her from the corner of his eyes. “Not to sound gauche, but…it’s possible it might work for you as well?”

Hawke couldn’t stop a surprised laugh slipping, knowing that her cheeks would be flushed as well. “I suppose it might work, so long as you promise to be gentle,” she teased.

Fenris sputtered in response, blushing all the way up to the tips of his pointed ears; clearly he hadn’t been expecting that reply. Hawke laughed again and pressed a kiss against his cheek. “I’m kidding,” she said lightly. “I mean, if you think it’ll help, then I’m willing to try. Or if you just want to for fun’s sake, then you’re welcome to spend the night.” She gestured behind her, where they’d finally arrived at Amell manor.

The elf laughed, his blush beginning to fade. “I’m grateful you’re so comfortable here with me,” he replied, a hand stroking her cheek. “I admit, I didn’t expect you to be willing. And while that makes me so happy…I feel like it would be taking advantage, since you can’t remember our past ‘encounters’.”

Hawke started to protest. “I’m still an adult capable of making rational decisions-”

“I know. Please, I don’t mean it in a belittling way, I apologize if that’s how it felt.” He stroked his thumb across her lips, watching her intently. “I’m not saying I never would like to be with you like that again, I would just like to wait a little longer before we take that step.”

Hawke sighed. “I understand. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t mean that in a condescending way,” she apologized. Fenris smiled.

“Plus, it’s already very late,” he replied lightly. “And we’re both likely going to be fighting a hangover in the morning as it is.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Fenris.”

“Goodnight, Hawke.” The elf pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, and then he was gone.


	12. The Apostate's Request

As Hawke worked to ease out the tightness of her healing shoulder muscles, Anders worked with her to make sure she didn’t overextend herself.

“Go slowly,” he instructed. Hawke stretched her arms out in front of her, hands clasped, and slowly lowered her head until she was staring at her bare feet on her practice mat. “By this point, it should feel more or less like ordinary stretching, if a little tight.”

“It still aches a bit,” Hawke grunted. She stretched further, letting out a slow breath at the burn building in the muscles of her back.

Anders’ cool fingers lightly probed the muscle, brushing over the red, puckered scar where the arrow had struck her. “By now the muscle will be scarred, and you’ll have to be careful not to stretch it out too quickly or you’ll tear it open again. You _have_ being taking it easy, yes?” he added with a pointed look.

Hawke, who’d sat on the ground and now stretched to grasp her toes, grumbled noncommittedly. Anders’ boot nudged her thigh and she swatted his foot away. “Yeah, I’m being careful,” she sighed. “I know better than to over-stretch when my trusty Dr. Anders is here.”

The healer met her grin with a tired smile of his own. Hawke stood and wiped the sweat from her forehead with a towel. “Hey, are you alright?” she said, grin fading.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” he replied, brushing away her concern with a hand wave.

“Are you sure?” Hawke came up to him, looking at him closely. With the prominent dark circles under his eyes and the wan face, he looked like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. “I mean, I’m no doctor, but you look seriously exhausted all the time now.”

“I’m alright.” Anders smiled again and laid a reassuring hand on her good shoulder. “I’ve just had a lot going on with Meredith’s crackdown, that’s all.”

“Well, alright. Just…we’re worried about you, that’s all.”

“Does ‘we’ include the antagonistic elf?” Anders quipped.

Hawke chuckled. “Ah, well, maybe not in so many words,” she admitted, “but it’s true. And I mean, if you ever need anything, all you have to do is ask. We’re your friends, we’re here for you.”

His smile was warmer this time. “Thank you, Hawke. I’ll remember that.”

As Hawke’s injury slowly returned to normal, she saw less and less of the apostate, and on the rare occasion she _did_ see him, he looked worse every time.

“Do you think Anders is alright?” Hawke worried aloud one night she spent at Fenris’ mansion. The elf looked up from his dinner, chewing thoughtfully.

“Alright as in ‘physically healthy’, or alright as in ‘mentally healthy’?” he asked.

“Both?”

“No.” At Hawke’s raised eyebrow, he clarified. “No to both. The man has been an abomination for years now, and he’s allowed it to slowly consume him, body and soul. His possession drives him to help mages that he believes are being treated unfairly, to everybody’s detriment.”

“Are you worried he’ll snap and attack someone innocent?” Hawke pushed her dinner around on her plate. “I mean, he’s my friend, but that’s the exact thing that templars worry about, for good reason.”

Fenris snorted. “It’s not like he hasn’t already done exactly that.”

Hawke choked on a bite of pasta. “He _what_?”

The elf sighed and set his dinner aside. He explained how Hawke had helped Anders find evidence of the “Tranquil Solution” proposed by a radical templar named Alrik, and how even though it had been dismissed by both Grand Cleric Elthina and Knight Commander Meredith, Anders had snapped and tried to attack an innocent mage.

“He only stopped once you managed to talk him down,” Fenris finished. “He’s been reclusive ever since. Even more so than normal,” he added as an afterthought, returning to his chicken and potatoes.

“Do you think we ought to do something?”

The elf snorted. “Aside from turning him in to the Circle for everybody’s better good, I don’t know if there’s anything in our power that we could do.”

Hawke sighed. “I was worried that’s what you’d say.”

When a week had passed and Hawke had seen neither hide nor hair of the apostate, she decided to take things into her own hands.

Hawke tapped her knuckles on the doorframe to Anders’ clinic and peered in. Nobody appeared to be inside. “Anders? Are you in?”

No answer, but a quiet shuffling noise from the back room caught her attention. Hawke went inside, following the noise, and found Anders leaned over a table, back to her. She knocked on the doorframe, and he jerked upright in surprise.

“Hawke!” he exclaimed, spotting her. He jerked a sheet over whatever it was he had been doing, and turned to face her fully. “Are you feeling alright? Is someone hurt?”

“No, no, everyone’s fine,” she said hurriedly. “No, I just wanted to come check in on you, see how you’re doing. You’ve been a little reclusive lately.”

“I know.” He gestured out to the main room of the clinic, and he followed her out. “I’m glad you stopped by, I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you. I need to ask a favor of you, but I can’t tell you why.”

Hawke frowned. “Can’t tell me why? Anders, are you in trouble?”

“Please, just…I need to get into the Chantry without being seen,” he explained. He sat on a bench, and Hawke sat beside him. “Will you talk to the Grand Cleric for me? Distract her long enough for me to do what must be done?”

“What do you want me to talk about?” Hawke asked cautiously.

“Food? The weather? What does it matter?” He shook his head. “No, talk of mages. Give her one final chance to hear what we’ve suffered. To pick a side. Perhaps she’ll be more inclined to listen to _you_.”

“Anders, tell me your plan,” Hawke urged. She laid a hand on his shoulder but he stood, shrugging it off, and started pacing.

“You would not thank me if I told you,” he replied somberly. “If you support freedom for mages like you’ve always seemed to, then help me."

“What is it you don’t want me to see?” Hawke probed.

“You said you believe in me. Again and again, you’ve shown your support for mages. Trust me now. I’m only doing what is necessary,” Anders explained passionately.

“I can’t act blindly; tell me your plan,” she pleaded.

“I’m taking a risk!” he said loudly. His voice turned accusatory. “I would not see you drawn into it. But maybe your support of mages ends at talk. It’s easy to support freedom if nobody must die to achieve it. You cannot pretend friendship, then stop now.”

Hawke stood, face drawn in anger and unhappiness. “Being your friend doesn’t mean I have to agree with your every decision,” she retorted.

“You cannot care for me and despise what I stand for,” Anders replied miserably. “I _am_ the cause of mages. There is nothing else inside me."

“I don’t despise what you stand for! Am _I_ the one who lost my memory, or did you forget that I’m a mage too?” She jabbed a finger at her own chest. “I may have never lived in a Circle, but I heard enough stories from my dad to know what it’s like. And I’ve heard and seen enough these past six months to know he didn’t exaggerate. You know damn well I support you and all your efforts for mages, and I don’t appreciate you pulling manipulative bullshit like that to try and get me to go along with whatever plan you’ve got cooked up. If you just _tell me_ , I might _help you_. Because that’s what _friends_ do.”

Anders ignored her speech, making her curl her lip in fury. “Will you aid us now? Or does your support stop at the chantry door?”

“Fine, tell me what you’d have of me, then,” Hawke said bitterly. “But I won’t forget that you blackmailed me to do it.”

“I promise, whatever happens, it’s on my head. It will not come back on you,” Anders assured her. Hawke could only frown unhappily. “Go to the chantry, talk to the Grand Cleric. I’ll join you when I’m done.”


	13. Justice

The walk up to the Chantry was one of the tensest Hawke could remember having, second only to the time Leandra had walked in on Hawke while she was in bed with a lover instead of attending Sunday prayer at the chantry.

With Fenris and Anders in tow, she marched up the stairs and pushed open the ornate metal doors. The scent of incense washed over them, and they headed into the dim interior.

“I’ll find you as soon as I’m done,” Anders said in a low voice. “Thank you.” And with that, he disappeared into the gloom between the pillars and the tall, flickering candles.

“Hawke, what’s this about?” Fenris asked quietly. “I don’t trust him.”

“I know, but I did agree to go along with it,” Hawke sighed. “I’ll explain it all later. Come on, we need to act inconspicuous.”

“Yes, because being an elf with lyrium tattoos and spiky armor in the chantry isn’t conspicuous at all,” Fenris muttered sarcastically. Hawke swatted him on the arm and nodded to the stairwells at the back, which led to the chantry’s upper levels.

They passed by a handful of sisters who knelt and recited the chants. With the incense, the flickering candlelight, and the murmured prayers, Hawke couldn’t help but remember the evenings she spent offering her own prayer at Lothering’s  chantry.

They ascended the staircase and after a moment were face-to-face with Grand Cleric Elthina herself.

“Maker’s blessing, Champion,” the woman said kindly, coming over. “Welcome. I’d heard you were recovering from your injuries, how are you?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Hawke replied.

“Have you come to pray?”

“I will before I leave, but I actually needed to talk to you.” Hawke shot Fenris a meaningful glance, and he withdrew and sat on a bench against the far wall. “So, hypothetically speaking, if there were a group of people being brutally subjugated by another…wouldn’t the Maker favor the oppressed?”

Elthina gave a long sigh. “You speak of mages.” She gestured, and the two women sat on a bench. “It’s no secret you count apostates among your friends, Champion. You’ve done much to fan the flames of rebellion here. We must give Meredith and Orsino time to work out their differences. No good can come to showing favor to one side.”

“The Maker created mages,” Hawke said carefully. “Why doesn’t he protect them?”

“I _feel_ for the mages, I do,” Elthina retorted, “I would not wish to be locked in the Gallows. But I _cannot_ take sides. We are all the Maker’s children, but magic allows abuses beyond the scope of mortals. I only hope I can balance the needs of everyone, for if it comes to war, it is the people of this city that will lose.”

Hawke opened her mouth to point out just how _stupid_ that was, but was interrupted by a familiar voice behind her.

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you all over,” Anders exclaimed, jogging up to them. He gave the Grand Cleric a respectful but slightly cold nod. “Your Grace.”

“Your soul is troubled, child,” she said softly. “I hope you found a balm for it here.”

 

Outside the chantry, Hawke stopped, Fenris and Anders coming up short behind her. “Fenris, I’ll catch up with you in a minute,” she said pointedly to the elf. He held her gaze and nodded, then turned to head down into Hightown – but not before he shot Anders a long, searching glare.

“Anders-”

“I cannot tell you how good it feels for a spirit to fulfill its function,” he interrupted. He still looked just as exhausted and worn down as he had that morning, but now his eyes had taken on a slightly unstable gleam. “The waiting is over. I am finally seeking Justice. And he is exultant. There is no ecstasy humankind can feel to match.”

“Anders, you’re scaring me,” Hawke said in a low voice. “Please, tell me what you did.”

“You are the Champion of Kirkwall,” the healer replied, avoiding her question. “You can better aid our cause in that role than by aligning yourself with me too closely here.”

“Please, you need to be careful. Whatever your plan is, it’s not worth your life,” Hawke argued.

“Oh, it is.” Anders smiled blankly. That look, more than anything the man had said or done, chilled Hawke to the bone. “One human life would be a small price for freedom. Don’t despair for me, Hawke. This is what I was born to do. The war will happen. The clock is ticking down. It will be midnight soon.”

With that, he turned and strode off, ignoring her calling after him. Hawke stared helplessly after him, filled with a sinking dread that soon they’d all be elbow deep in shit.

 

That night found Hawke pacing back and forth in her study, beating back the anxiety that felt like it was going to strangle her. A knock snapped her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to see Fenris standing in the doorway. “Are you alright?” he asked. “I thought we were supposed to have dinner at my place.”

“Oh, Fenris, I’m sorry,” she sighed. She sank down into a chair. “I completely forgot, I’ve just been so anxious about Anders and all this bullshit with Meredith and Orsino.”

Fenris sat next to her and laid his hand on her knee. “It’s alright, I understand.” Hawke took his hand in hers and entwined their fingers, and he kissed the back of her hand. “Did the mage tell you what his plan was?”

“No,” Hawke exhaled. “Maker, do you think I made a mistake helping him without him telling me?”

“Yes,” Fenris said plainly.

“ _Thanks_.”

 “You know my feelings about him. I will not lie to you, I don’t like you being around him at all. And you also know I’ve said he’s going to get innocent people hurt with his actions.”

“You’re really making me feel great here,” Hawke grumbled.

The elf grimaced. “Sorry,” he said, kissing her hand again. “You want to help your friends no matter what, and I admire that about you. But…I worry this will not end well.”

Hawke leaned against him and laid her head on his shoulder, grateful for the lack of spiky armor. “Do you think all of this mage-templar nonsense is gonna blow up in our faces?”

“I think so, yes,” Fenris said somberly. “But however this turns out, I will remain by your side.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I did want to ask you a question, though.”

“Yes?”

“Earlier in the chantry, when the Grand Cleric suggested you pray, you said that you would.”

“That’s not a question.”

Fenris nibbled her earlobe in reproach, earning a giggle. “My question is, are you Andrastian?”

Hawke turned to face him more fully. “What, have I never mentioned that?”

“Not to my _memory_.”

Hawke tried to nibble at Fenris’ ear in revenge, but he tilted his head away, thwarting her. “I’m not very devout, but I do believe,” she pouted. Fenris chuckled, and pressed a light kiss to the tip of her nose in apology.

“Forgive me, you’ve just never come across as religious in the time I’ve known you,” he explained.

Hawke hummed thoughtfully. “Wow. I wonder if everything that’s happened has affected my faith somehow,” she suggested. Fenris wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek.

They remained sitting there, quiet, for several minutes until an obnoxious growl from Fenris’ stomach ended the silence.

“Would you like some dinner?” Hawke offered past her giggles.

Fenris chuckled in return. “Please.”


	14. The Beginning of the End

Hawke jerked awake, whole body slicked with sweat, and for a moment couldn’t remember where she was or why something warm and heavy was wrapped around her. The thing shifted, withdrawing, and after a moment Fenris’ drowsy face came into focus. “Are you alright?” he said, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep.

“Sorry, I just had a…a really vivid dream,” Hawke breathed. She rubbed her eyes. “It was…we were in bed.”

“We’re in bed now.”

“In _bed._ ”

“Oh.” Fenris and Hawke shared a tired chuckle, and after a second she settled back onto the mattress, head resting on the soft curve of the elf’s bare shoulder. His arms wrapped around her, and she slid her arm around his waist. Hawke pressed a lazy kiss against his neck and he hummed in sleepy contentment. “Well, I’m a little tired, but if you’re up for it-”

Hawke’s teeth scraped against his neck, right where she’d just kissed. Fenris’ words stuttered and trailed off, and she chuckled against his skin. “It wasn’t an offer,” she said, kissing his throat once more. “At least, not right now.”

The elf huffed in mock indignation, but muttered assent. “Besides, I want you fully awake whenever it finally happens,” he murmured in her ear. The sleep-rough edge had one from his voice, and the rich bass sent tingles right down her core. “I don’t want you to miss one…single…thing.” He punctuated each word with a kiss, starting behind the shell of her ear and trailing down the side of her throat, right over her suddenly jumping pulse. Hawke shuddered in response, eyes fluttering shut.

A distant banging interrupted them, followed several seconds later by Bodahn’s distant voice answering the front door. Hawke sat up again, fighting a yawn. Bodahn talked briefly with whoever was at the door, and a few moments later, the dwarf knocked at her door.

“Ah, serah Hawke? A thousand pardons for waking you at this hour, but something urgent has come up,” Bodahn’s slightly muffled voice informed them. Hawke slid off the bed and pulled on her robe she’d tossed over a chair, and opened the door.

“What time is it?” she asked, yawning again.

“It’s nearly eleven,” Bodahn apologized. “A courier came with an urgent message from Grand Enchanter Orsino. Knight Commander Meredith has accused Grand Enchanter Orsino of harboring blood mages in the Circle. Everyone fears it will come to blows, and if it does, innocent blood will be shed,” he worried.

Hawke’s hand clasped her throat. Fenris came up behind her, and his warm hand gave an assuring stroke across her lower back. “Are you serious?” she breathed. “What am _I_ supposed to do?”

“I’m not sure,” the dwarf said anxiously.

“Go get Hawke’s staff,” Fenris instructed. Bodahn nodded and disappeared into the darkness of the manor. The elf pushed the door shut and turned to Hawke. “You should get dressed.”

“Maker, you’re right,” Hawke said. “Oh shit, what am I supposed to do?”

“Put on a shirt, for one,” Fenris said dryly, tossing the garment at her. She scowled at him and jerked it on over her undershirt, followed by pants. Behind her, he pulled on his tunic, and was tying on his belt when Bodahn returned with Hawke’s bladed staff.

Fenris, now fully dressed in his usual spikes, helped Hawke strap on her armor. Facing away from him, as he tied off a strap, she asked, “Do you think I can do this?”

He grunted, finishing what he was doing, and turned her to face him. He gripped her shoulders and shook her gently. “Saphira Marian Hawke,” he said firmly, “you are a brilliant, fierce, loyal, beautiful woman. You’re the most badass person I know. If anybody can sort out this mess, you can.”

Hawke pulled him close and kissed him. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Now let’s go kick somebody’s ass.”

“Anybody specific in mind?”

“I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

 

Hawke wouldn’t have much time to figure it out, as it would turn out.

On their way to the Gallows, Hawke stopped at the Hanged Man to grab Varric, who muttered to one of his ‘contacts’ to let the rest of their motley group know that things were coming to a head. She also took a lift down into the Undercity to get Anders – if things turned nasty, they’d need a healer, she explained to a sour Fenris. And she wanted to keep an eye on the mage, just in case.

They had barely made it to the docks, however, before shouting reached their ears. They ran around the corner in time to find Orsino and Meredith nearly nose-to-nose, surrounded by a handful of templars and a couple of nervous-looking Circle mages.

“I _will_ have the tower searched, top to bottom!” the Knight-Commander was saying haughtily.

“You cannot do that! You have no right!” Orsino protested.

“I have every right!” Meredith retorted. “You are harboring blood mages, and I intend to root them out before they can infect this city!”

The Grand Enchanter threw his hands up in frustration. “Blood magic, where do you _not_ see blood magic? My people cannot even sneeze without you accusing them of corruption!”

“Do not trifle with me, mage. My patience is at an end,” Meredith threatened.

“A wonder that I never saw it begin,” Orsino bit out, turning as Hawke and her friends finally drew close.

“What the hell is going on here?” Hawke demanded. “Hasn’t this gone on long enough?”

“This does not involve you, Champion,” Meredith barked.

“ _I_ called her here,” Orsino said loudly. “I think the people deserve to know what you’ve done.”

“What _I have done_ is protect the people of this city, time and time again! What _I have done_ is protect you mages from your curse and your own stupidity!” the Knight Commander spat. “And I will _not_ stop doing it. I will not lower our guard, I dare not!”

“Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?” Hawke appealed. “Surely you can see the tighter you squeeze, the harder mages push back. You don’t have to make sure you’re always right about every single little thing.”

“If I am wrong, then innocent people will suffer,” Meredith replied in a lower voice. “What other choice do I have? Tell me, Champion, that you have not seen with your own eyes what they can do, heard the lies of mages who seek power!”

Hawke opened her mouth to deny it, but stopped. For a moment, she wasn’t standing in Lowtown, trying to mediate a fight that had been coming since before she’d been born. For a moment, she was kneeling in the sewers deep underneath the Undercity, her mother’s butchered and brutalized body across her lap as Leandra told her she loved her with her dying breath.

She blinked, and her mother’s face faded away until Meredith’s tense face was again clear. The templar nodded grimly, as if she too had seen Hawke’s memory.

“Mages aren’t the only ones that lie and seek power,” Hawke argued, but her protest came too late. The Knight-Commander’s face told her that no matter what was said now, she wouldn’t listen.

Orsino pushed forward, jabbing a finger accusingly at the templar. “You would cast us all as villains, but it is not so!”

For just the briefest moment, Meredith’s face softened. “I know, and it breaks my heart to do it, but we must be vigilant. If you cannot tell me another way, do not brand me a tyrant!”

In that moment, Hawke realized that as much as Meredith was wrong about seeing blood magic everywhere in the same way the chantry sees sin everywhere, the Knight-Commander sincerely believed she was doing the right, necessary thing to keep Kirkwall safe. Hawke wondered what the woman had suffered through to make her believe so.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Orsino said bitterly. “Grand Cleric Elthina will put a stop to this.” He turned and strode off, but not before Meredith’s hand shot out and grabbed a handful of his robes, yanking him back.

“You will not bring her Grace into this,” she spat, her voice twisted with hostility almost beyond recognition.

“The grand cleric cannot help you!”

Everyone turned to see none other but Anders stepping forward, speaking at last. Hawke narrowed her eyes, fighting the sinking feeling that was turning her stomach leaden.

Meredith stepped forward, already looking livid. “Explain yourself, mage!”

“I will not stand by and watch you treat all mages like criminals while those who would lead us bow to their templar jailers!” Anders exclaimed, with an accusatory finger jab at Orsino.

The Grand Enchanter bristled. “How dare you speak to me-”

“The Circle has failed us, Orsino! Even you should be able to see that! The time has come to act. There can be no half measures.” As he spoke, Anders’ voice deepened and his eyes glowed vibrant blue, and Hawke could smell the bitter metallic scent of magic, of the Fade. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t Anders or Justice, but Vengance.

Hawke swore. If Anders didn’t care enough to hide that he was an abomination, that meant he was finally ready to reveal his endgame. Meredith muttered a prayer under hear breath, and Orsino looked similarly flabbergasted.

“Anders, what have you done?” Hawke asked softly.

“There can be no half measures,” the apostate repeated, and turned to face the heart of the city – towards Hightown. Around her, everyone’s heads turned to look as well. A deep rumble filled the air, and Hawke raised her own eyes in time to see a bright red light growing in the distance. Suddenly the light shot up into the air with a concussive _boom_ …from the now-shattered chantry.


	15. Resurgence

It took ten seconds before anybody spoke. In those ten seconds, Hawke watched in horror as debris rained down on not just Hightown, but rolled down the mountain down onto Lowtown. As the rumbling explosion faded away, the screams of the trapped, injured, and scared began echoing against the stone like some choir of the damned.

“Maker have mercy,” Meredith whispered, as ash began snowing down upon them. Hawke turned; the woman was pale as a sheet. Hawke was sure she herself looked no better.

“There can be no peace,” Anders said in a low voice.

“Why?” Orsino said at last. He turned to Anders, eyes wide. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“I removed the chance of compromise, because there _is_ no compromise,” the apostate replied dully.

“The grand cleric has been slain by magic, the chantry destroyed,” Meredith said slowly. She turned to face everyone, her expression stony. “As knight-commander of Kirkwall, I hereby invoke the Right of Annulment. Every mage in the Circle is to be executed – immediately.”

Orsino gaped at her, his own face going paper white. “The Circle didn’t even do this!” he cried. He turned to Hawke, pleading. “Please, Champion, you can’t let her! Help us stop this madness!”

“And I demand you stand with _us_ ,” Meredith countered. “Even you must see this outrage cannot be tolerated.”

Even Anders turned to face her now. “It can’t be stopped now. You have to choose,” he said.

Hawke gaped at them all, but it was to the apostate her gaze fell. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” she demanded.

“I do. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier,” Anders answered. “The Circle is an injustice, in many places beyond Kirkwall. The world needs to see.”

“You fool! You’ve doomed us all!” Orsino exclaimed.

“We were already doomed! A quick death now or a slow one later – I’d rather die fighting,” Anders replied.

“What about the innocent people caught in your ‘justice’? Who are you to decide that _they_ should die in your fight?” Hawke demanded, gesturing vehemently towards the city. Smoke and flames rose to the dark sky, blotting out the stars, and the wails of the injured continued to echo hauntingly through the night air. Despite the terror of Meredith’s retribution, despite her fury at being so easily duped into helping Anders with his asinine plan…the emotion shattering her heart wasn’t fear or anger; it was grief. “Or did you conveniently forget the tons of rock you just dropped on people who had nothing to do with your damned vengeance? You’re a murderer. The grand cleric, those civilians, and now the mages: their blood is on _your hands_.” She jabbed an accusatory finger into his chest, and the man staggered back a step.

“I know,” he said miserably.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Meredith interrupted. “Even if I wished to, I could not stay my hand. The people will demand blood.”

“You must make a choice,” Anders repeated.

Every single eye fell upon Hawke now. She met their gaze one at a time; Meredith, Orsino, Anders, the templars, the mages. At some point, Isabela, Merrill, and Aveline had shown up, and they held her gaze as well. Finally, she turned to Fenris. He said nothing, but gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Hawke steeled herself, squared her shoulders, and turned to face Meredith once more.

“I cannot condone the slaughter of mages who had no part in Anders’ plan,” she said, clearly enough for everybody present to hear with no mistakes. “Orsino, you have my support.”

“Hawke, if you do this, I don’t know if I can follow,” Aveline warned.

“I believe in you, Hawke,” Merrill said softly.

“Think carefully, Champion,” Meredith said coldly. “Stand with them, and you share their fate.”

“I can live with that,” Hawke said steadily.

Behind her, she could swear Varric heaved a sigh of relief and muttered “thank the Maker.”

“I won’t abandon you,” Fenris murmured, low enough for only her to hear.

“You are a fool, Champion,” the Knight-Commander said disdainfully. She turned from them and began walking towards the docks, towards the boat that would take her back to the Gallows. “Kill them all! I will rouse the rest of the order.”

Orsino whipped around to face the mages who accompanied him. “Go! Get to the Gallows before it’s too late!” he cried. They fled even as Hawke and her friends raised their weapons in their defense.

The brawl was quick and bloody. Hawke leapt forward into the path of a templar swinging at a terrified young mage; his sword collided with a thud against Hawke’s staff. She shoved him back and launched a flurry of attacks, darting and swinging and stabbing with her staff. For the moment she held back from using magic – who knows how long this battle would last. The last thing she wanted was to be caught with no mana in a fight against a templar.

He charged her, sword flashing in the dim moonlight. Hawke sidestepped and swung her staff around like a bat, so the round, heavy end of it slammed into the back of his head with a dull  _crunch_ , his helmet crumbling like paper. She turned to see a second templar charging; she parried his sword and sliced the blade of her staff up, aiming at the weakly-armored armpit. The man fell with a cry, incapacitated but not dead.

A third templar stepped forward. This one, with the gold sash of a knight-captain as opposed to the red of a templar recruit, was smarter than the other two; he stepped close where she couldn’t maneuver with her staff. Hawke tried to push him back but he grabbed her staff, anchoring them together, and made to sink his blade deep into her torso. She twisted and stomped her foot down on the arch of his foot, and felt the fragile sides of his armor crumble under her boot. The templar howled in agony, and she heard a clatter as the man dropped his sword. She yanked backwards and pulled free of him while he was distracted, then leapt forward again and sank the blade of her staff deep into his torso, just under his breastplate.

The man gurgled, staring at her with wide eyes as the color drained from his face. He opened his mouth and coughed, blood sputtering and dripping from his lips. Hawke jerked the blade out of him with a sickening squelch, then twisted and sliced swiftly across his throat for a quick death. The man collapsed at her feet, lifeless.

Hawke barely had two seconds to stand there, covered in blood and breathing heavily, before another templar headed her way. He charged, shield held out like a battering ram. She braced herself-

A blinding flash of light and a loud _thwack_ stunned her and she staggered – a stray spell cast by a hasty, panicked mage had struck her in the side of the head. She blinked away the spots in her eyes, and the templar barely came back into focus before his shield collided with her.

Hawke flew through the air and immediately slammed into the wall behind her. The back of her head hit the stone, hard, and her vision fractured and blurred again. As she slid to the ground, images flashed through her head, slow at first but increasing in speed – Aveline, punching a darkspawn in the face before decapitating it. Bethany, being slammed into the dirt by an ogre. Gamlen, telling them he’d gambled away the Amell fortune. Fenris ripping out a slaver’s heart. Merrill bowing to Flemeth. Carver wasting away in the deep roads. Fenris, nude and smiling, lowering himself onto her in bed. The Qunari taking over the city, her middle ripped open and blood everywhere. Champion.

Dimly, she heard a familiar voice bellowing in fear and fury, and the sound of a man choking on his own blood. Then, hands slick with hot blood cradled her face, and that familiar voice was calling her name, pleading.

“Hawke!” She opened her bleary eyes to find Fenris’ blood-speckled face inches from her own. His wide green eyes roved all over her, searching for injury. “Hawke, are you hurt?”

“F-Fenris,” Hawke gasped. Her fingers scrabbled at his chest, hooking onto his chest plate and pulling him close. “Fenris, _I remember._ ”

The elf’s jaw dropped. “You-”

“I remember everything!” With his help, she stood upright, swaying dangerously. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her arm over around his shoulders, and they hobbled back to everybody else. Thankfully, there only seemed to be a couple minor injuries. “Varric, Isabela, everyone, I remember it all!”

All of her friends’ faces lit up, but before they could get past their initial congratulations and expressions of relief, Orsino cut in.

“I’m relieved to hear that your memory has finally returned, but I’m afraid we don’t have time to celebrate,” he said grimly. “I don’t know if we can win this war, Champion, but…thank you.” He turned and Hawke followed his gaze; Anders had sat on a fallen crate some ways away, staring at his clasped hands in his lap. “I will leave your…friend for you to deal with. I must return to the Gallows. Meet me there as soon as you can.” With a last glance at the man, Orsino turned and disappeared after Meredith.


	16. Sibling Rivalry, Resolved

Hawke took a moment to just look at Anders, really look. Disheveled blonde hair, falling out of its half-ponytail. Pale, wan face, deep purple bruises under his glazed eyes, and neglected stubble. Dirty, shabby robes with feathers missing from the pauldrons, blood spattered on the hem.

She finally took a step forward, basking in the memories that had finally returned, with every emotion associated. In her mind’s eye she once again saw Anders discover Karl’s Tranquility. She saw him lose control and reveal his being an abomination; yet just months later, save Carver’s life by leading them to nearby Wardens. She saw Anders beg for help to prevent senseless Tranquility rites, yet at the end, nearly kill an innocent mage because he succumbed to his senses.

By the time she’d reached the man, and he looked up from his clasped hands to finally meet her eye, she’d remembered every moment of comradery, every shared laugh and the moment they’d both realized they were fast friends. Even as Anders took a breath to speak, she’d still not decided what she’d do.

“Your memory is back. Congratulations,” he said dully.

Hawke held her tongue. There were so many things she wanted to say, they all warred for attention. _Murderer, reckless, abomination, careless, backstabber…friend._

“There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t already said to myself,” he said. He met and held her gaze. “I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever to achieve this. This is the justice that all mages have awaited.”

“Starting a massacre to prove a point isn’t justice,” she said quietly. “You have to know this is a fight nobody will win.”

“I’m not ‘proving a point’! I’m changing the world,” Anders retorted. “You’ve never been part of the Circle; I have! People fear what we can do, but to use that fear to bludgeon us into submission is wrong! And they do it with our blessing.” His shoulders slumped, and he finally dropped her gaze. “And if I pay for that with my life…then I pay. Perhaps then Justice would at least be free.”

Hawke frowned. “You can’t be asking of me what I think you are.”

“It is your choice.”

She stared at his bowed head. If she’d not regained her entire memory, maybe she’d have succumbed to her fear and anger, and lashed out with Anders as the casualty. Even with her memories of all their shared fights and victories and losses, the urge to draw her knife and sink it into his flesh rose like a dark serpent, wrapping and twisting around her heart and lungs.

And yet…

Hawke let her hands fall loose at her side, away from her knife. “You can’t ask this of me,” she said. Even to her own ears, she sounded absolutely exhausted. “Just…just go.”

Anders’ head shot up and he stared at her as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. “You’re not going to kill me?”

She flinched, both at the words and the unspoken assumption, but held his stare. “There’s going to be plenty of death tonight. I have enough blood on my hands already without adding yours,” she said after a moment, and turned away from him. “Get out of my city.” With that, she strode towards the Gallows without checking if her friends followed.

 

She’d just reached the dock when a distant shouting caught her attention. It drew closer and closer, and Hawke squinted through the smoky air. Something about that bellow sounded familiar.

“HAWKE!”

Her jaw dropped as a familiar figure came barreling out of the flames and smoke, dim moonlight glinting off the signature silverite armor. At the sight of her, he breathed a sigh of relief and lowered the blood-spattered greatsword.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I thought you were dead,” Carver explained, drawing close. “I saw the explosion from a ways outside the city, I ran here as fast as I could. What the hell is going on?”

Behind him, Fenris, Isabela, Varric, Aveline, and Merrill emerged as well, with varying degrees of amusement and relief on their face. “Your family sure has convenient timing,” Isabela chimed in.

“It takes more than a little explosion to kill me,” she said to her brother, with much more bravado than she truly felt.

Carver gave a brief smile, but it faded quickly. “What happened?”

Hawke briefly explained the situation with Anders, and that they were all about to go the Gallows in an attempt to stop the massacre that was sure to follow. Carver rubbed a hand over his jaw, where the shadow of stubble was starting to show.

“Well, shit,” he said at last. “This is a fight nobody can win.”

“That’s what _I_ said.”

“And you still threw your lot in with the mages? You have to know it’s a long shot,” he said doubtfully.

Hawke sighed. “I know. But it’s the right thing.”

Carver pursed his lips, thinking something over. He apparently reached a conclusion, and spoke. “Look, I know what happened in the Deep Roads. You saved my life, and I didn’t even thank you. You’re the only family I have left. I have to stand by you. Just say the word, and you’ll have my blade.”

Hawke swallowed the lump of emotion that suddenly swelled up in her throat, threatening to betray her as tears. “Aren’t Wardens supposed to be neutral?”

Carver’s face fell a little. “I’m a Warden because of you. I blamed you for a long time, but…you saved more than my life. I’m so much more than I was. This is what I was meant to be, and I won’t thank you by doing nothing while you start a war.” He held her gaze steadily, the ice blue identical to her own. The determination and – dare she say it – love in his eyes made her straighten her spine and give him her signature cocky grin.

“I’d be either stupid or insane to refuse,” she said, offering her hand. “Your blade is always welcome.”

Carver offered his hand as well, and they grasped forearms. He returned her grin with his own. “Brother and sister fighting side by side again, eh? Just like old times.”

“It’s good to have you back, brother.”

 

The boat ride to the Gallows was tense, everybody lost in their own thoughts. Carver and Merrill talked quietly at the front of the boat, and to Hawke’s surprise she spotted their hands clasped, and the elf pressed a soft kiss to the warrior’s suddenly pink face.

“I know they used to flirt,” Hawke murmured to Fenris, “but did I miss them becoming an actual couple?”

Fenris, who had been double checking the back of her head to make sure the bleeding had stopped, grunted noncommittally. “You’re not bleeding anymore, and I don’t think your skull is injured,” he said instead. He sat next to her and clasped his hands, leg bouncing.

Hawke eyed him, noting the anxious behavior. “Are you alright?” she asked after a second.

He hesitated. “You have your memory back now.”

“Yes.”

“And you remember _everything._ ”

“Well, my memory isn’t perfect, but it’s there at least,” Hawke chuckled.

Fenris didn’t smile. “After you were shot with the arrow, you said you forgave me taking so long to come back to you,” he said softly. “I need to know…do you still forgive me? Now that you remember it all?”

Hawke’s eyes softened as she regarded him, the worry that creased the skin around his eyes and mouth. “I told you that from what I’d heard about myself, I believed I’d have forgiven you,” she said quietly. “And I was right. I told you I’d want you nowhere else but at my side, and that still stands.”

The man’s shoulders slumped with relief, and she leaned over to press a soft kiss to his cheek. Their fingers twined once more.

“I love you,” Hawke murmured.

“I am yours.”


End file.
